4    IDE    flD7 


THE 

LEGEND    OF    JUBAL 

AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


cf 


THE 


LEGEND    OF    JUBAL 


AND    OTHER    POEMS, 


BY 


GEORGE     ELIOT. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

(LATE  TlOKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  CO.) 

1874. 


[FROM  ADVANCE   SHEETS.} 


BOSTON: 

RANT>,  AVERY,  &  Co.,  ELECTROTYPERS  AND  PRINTERS, 
117  FRANKLIN  STREET. 


LH- 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

t  THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL 1 

AGATHA 43 

>ARMGART 67 

HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING 137 

A  MINOR  PROPHET 171 

BROTHER  AND  SISTER 191 

STRADIVARIUS 205 

TWO  LOVERS 217 

ARION ....  223 

"O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE"   .                       .  231 


THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL. 


WHEN  Cain  was  driven  from  Jehovah's  land 
He  wandered  eastward,  seeking  some  far  strand 
Ruled  by  kind  gods  who  asked  no  offerings 
Save  pure  field-fruits,  as  aromatic  things, 
To  feed  the  subtler  sense  of  frames  divine 
That  lived  on  fragrance  for  their  food  and  wine : 
Wild  jo3rous  gods,  who  winked  at  faults  and  folly, 
And  could  be  pitiful  and  melancholy. 
He  never  had  a  doubt  that  such  gods  were  ; 
He  looked  within,  and  saw  them  mirrored  there. 
Some  think  he  came  at  last  to  Tartary, 
And  some  to  Ind  ;  but,  howsoe'er  it  be, 
His  staff  he  planted  where  sweet  waters  ran, 
And  in  that  home  of  Cain  the  Arts  began. 


4  THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL. 

Man's  life  was  spacious  in  the  early  world : 
It  paused,  like  some  slow  ship  with  sail  unfurled 
Waiting  in  seas  by  scarce  a  wavelet  curled ; 
Beheld  the  slow  star-paces  of  the  skies, 
And  grew  from  strength  to  strength  through  centu 
ries  ; 

Saw  infant  trees  fill  out  their  giant  limbs, 
And  heard  a  thousand  times  the  sweet  birds'  mar 
riage  hymns. 

In  Cain's  young  city  none  had  heard  of  Death 
Save  him,  the  founder  ;  and  it  was  his  faith 
That  here,  away  from  harsh  Jehovah's  law, 
Man  was  immortal,  since  no  halt  or  flaw 
In  Cain's  own  frame  betrayed  six  hundred  years, 
But  dark  as  pines  that  autumn  never  sears 
His  locks  thronged  backward  as  he  ran,  his  frame 
Rose  like  the  orbed  sun  each  morn  the  same, 
Lake-mirrored  to  his  gaze  ;  and  that  red  brand, 
The  scorching  impress  of  Jehovah's  hand, 
Was  still  clear-edged  to  his  unwearied  eye, 
Its  secret  firm  in  time-fraught  memory. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  JURAL. 


He  said,  "  My  happy  offspring  shall  n 
That  the  red  life  from  out  a  man  may  flow 
When  smitten  bjr  his  brother."     True,  his  race 
Bore  each  one  stamped  upon  his  new-born  face 
A  copy  of  the  brand  no  whit  less  clear  ; 
But  every  mother  held  that  little  copy  dear. 

Thus  generations  in  glad  idlesse  throve, 
Nor  hunted  prey,  nor  with  each  other  strove  ; 
For  clearest  springs  were  plenteous  in  the  land, 
And  gourds  for  cups  ;   the   ripe   fruits  sought   the 

hand, 

Bending  the  laden  boughs  with  fragrant  gold  ; 
And  for  their  roofs  and  garments  wealth  untold 
Lay  everywhere  in  grasses  and  broad  leaves  : 
The}'  labored  gently,  as  a  maid  who  weaves 
Her  hair  in  mimic  mats,  and  pauses  oft 
And  strokes  across  her  hand  the  tresses  soft, 
Then  peeps  to  watch  the  poised  butterfly, 
Or  little  burthened  ants  that  homeward  hie. 
Time  was  but  leisure  to  their  lingering  thought, 
There  was  no  need  for  haste  to  finish  aught ; 


6  THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

But  sweet  beginnings  were  repeated  still 
Like  infant  babblings  that  no  task  fulfil ; 
For  love,  that  loved   not  change,  constrained  the 
simple  will. 

Till,  hurling  stones  in  mere  athletic  joy, 
Strong  Lamech  struck  and  killed  his  fairest  boy, 
And  tried  to  wake  him  with  the  tenderest  cries, 
And  fetched  and  held  before  the  glazed  eyes 
The  things  they  best  had  loved  to  look  upon ; 
But  never  glance  or  smile  or  sigh  he  won. 
The  generations  stood  around  those  twain 
Helplessly  gazing,  till  their  father  Cain 
Parted  the  press,  and  said,  "  He  will  not  wake  ; 
This  is  the  endless  sleep,  and  we  must  make 
A  bed  deep  down  for  him  beneath  the  sod  ; 
For  know,  my  sons,  there  is  a  mighty  God 
Angry  with  all  man's  race,  but  most  with  me. 
I  fled  from  out  His  land  in  vain  !  —  'tis  He 
Who  came  and  slew  the  lad,  for  He  has  found 
This  home  of  ours,  and  we  shall  all  be  bound 
By  the  harsh  bands  of  His  most  cruel  will, 
Which  any  moment  may  some  dear  one  kill. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL.  7 

Nay,  though  we  live  for  countless  moons,  at  last 
We  and  all  ours  shall  die  like  summers  past. 
This  is  Jehovah's  will,  and  He  is  strong ; 
I  thought  the  way  I  travelled  was  too  long 
For  Him  to  follow  me  :  my  thought  was  vain  ! 
He  walks  unseen,  but  leaves  a  track  of  pain, 
Pale   Death   His   footprint  is,   and   He  will   come 
again !  " 

/ 

And  a  new  spirit  from  that  hour  came  o'er 

The  race  of  Cain  :  soft  idlesse  was  no  more, 

But  even  the  sunshine  had  a  heart  of  care, 

Smiling  with  hidden  dread  —  a  mother  fair 

Who  folding  to  her  breast  a  dying  child 

Beams  with  feigned  joy  that  but  makes  sadness  mild. 

Death  was  now  lord  of  Life,  and  at  his  word 

Time,  vague  as  air  before,  new  terrors  stirred, 

With  measured  wing  now  audibly  arose 

Throbbing   through   all   things   to    some    unknown 

close. 

Now  glad  Content  by  clutching  Haste  was  torn, 
And  Work  grew  eager,  and  Device  was  born. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL. 

It  seemed  the  light  was  never  loved  before, 

Now  each   man   said,   "'Twill   go    and    come    no 

more." 

No  budding  branch,  no  pebble  from  the  brook, 
No  form,  no  shadow,  but  new  dearness  took 
From  the  one  thought  that  life  must  have  an  end ; 
And  the  last  parting  now  began  to  send 
Diffusive  dread  through  love  and  wedded  bliss, 
Thrilling  them  into  finer  tenderness. 
Then  Memory  disclosed  her  face  divine, 
That  like  the  calm  nocturnal  lights  doth  shine 
Within  the  soul,  and  shows  the  sacred  graves, 
And  shows  the  presence  that  no  sunlight  craves, 
No  space,  no  warmth,  but  moves  among  them  all ; 
Gone  and  yet  here,  and  coining  at  each  call, 
With  ready  voice  and  eyes  that  understand, 
And  lips  that  ask  a  kiss,  and  dear  responsive  hand. 

Thus  to  Cain's  race  death  was  tear-watered  seed 
Of  various  life  and  action-shaping  need. 
But  chief  the  sons  of  Lamech  felt  the  stings 
Of  new  ambition,  and  the  force  that  springs 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  9 

In  passion  beating  on  the  shores  of  fate. 

They  said,  "  There  comes  a  night  when  all  too  late 

The  mind  shall  long  to  prompt  the  achieving  hand, 

The  eager  thought  behind  closed  portals  stand, 

And  the  last  wishes  to  the  mute  lips  press 

Buried  ere  death  in  silent  helplessness. 

Then  while  the  soul  its  way  with  sound  can  cleave, 

And  while  the  arm  is  strong  to  strike  and  heave, 

Let  soul  and  arm  give  shape  that  will  abide 

And  rule  above  our  graves,  and  power  divide 

With  that  great  god  of  day,  whose  rays  must  bend 

As  we  shall  make  the  moving  shadows  tend. 

Come,  let  us  fashion  acts  that  are  to  be, 

When  we  shall  lie  in  darkness  silently, 

As  our  young  brother  doth,  whom  yet  we  see 

Fallen  and  slain,  but  reigning  in  our  will 

By  that  one  image  of  him  pale  and  still." 

For  Lamech's  sons  were  heroes  of  their  race : 
Jabal,  the  eldest,  bore  upon  his  face 
The  look  of  that  calm  river-god,  the  Nile, 
Mildly  secure  in  power  that  needs  not  guile. 


10  THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 

But  Tubal-Cain  was  restless  as  the  fire 

That  glows  and  spreads  and  leaps   from  high  to 

higher 

Where'er  is  aught  to  seize  or  to  subdue  ; 
Strong  as  a  storm  he  lifted  or  o'erthrew, 
His  urgent  limbs  like  granite  bowlders  grew, 
Such  bowlders  as  the  plunging  torrent  wears 
And  roaring  rolls  around  through  countless  years. 
But  strength  that  still  on  movement  must  be  fed, 
Inspiring  thought  of  change,  devices  bred, 
And  urged  his  mind  through  earth  and  air  to  rove 
For  force  that  he  could  conquer  if  he  strove, 
For  lurking  forms  that  might  new  tasks  fulfil 
And  yield  unwilling  to  his  stronger  will. 
Such  Tubal-Cain.     But  Jubal  had  a  frame 
Fashioned  to  finer  senses,  which  became 
A  yearning  for  some  hidden  soul  of  things, 
Some  outward  touch  complete  on  inner  springs 
That  vaguely  moving  bred  a  lonely  pain, 
A  want  that  did  but  stronger  grow  with  gain 
Of  all  good  else,  as  spirits  might  be  sad 
For  lack  of  speech  to  tell  us  they  are  glad. 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  11 

Now  Jabal  learned  to  tame  the  lowing  kine, 
And  from  their  udders  drew  the  snow-white  wine 
That  stirs  the  innocent  joy,  and  makes  the  stream 
Of  elemental  life  with  fulness  teem  ; 
The  star-browed  calves  he  nursed  with  feeding  hand, 
And  sheltered  them,  till  all  the  little  band 
Stood  mustered  gazing  at  the  sunset  way 
Whence  he  would  come  with  store  at  close  of  day. 
He  soothed  the  silly  sheep  with  friendly  tone, 
And  reared  their  staggering  lambs,  that,  older  grown, 
Followed  his  steps  with  sense-taught  memory  ; 
Till  he,  their  shepherd,  could  their  leader  be, 
And  guide  them  through  the  pastures  as  he  would, 
With  sway  that  grew  from  ministry  of  good. 
He  spread  his  tents  upon  the  grassy  plain 
Which,  eastward  widening  like  the  open  main, 
Showed  the  first  whiteness  'neath  the  morning  star ; 
Near  him  his  sister,  deft,  as  women  are, 
Plied  her  quick  skill  in  sequence  to  his  thought 
Till  the  hid  treasures  of  the  milk  she  caught 
Revealed  like  pollen  'mid  the  petals  white, 
The  golden  pollen,  virgin  to  the  light. 


12  THE  LEGEND   OF    JUBAL. 

Even  the  she-wolf  with  3~oung,  on  rapine  bent, 
He  caught  and  tethered  in  his  mat-walled  tent, 
And  cherished  all  her  little  sharp-nosed  young 
Till  the  small  race  with  hope  and  terror  clung 
About  his  footsteps,  till  each  new-reared  brood, 
Remoter  from  the  memories  of  the  wood, 
More    glad    discerned    their   common    home   with 

man. 

This  was  the  work  of  Jabal :  he  began 
The  pastoral  life,  and,  sire  of  jo}*s  to  be, 
Spread  the  sweet  ties  that  bind  the  family 
O'er  dear  dumb  souls  that  thrilled  at  man's  caress, 
And  shared  his  pain  with  patient  helpfulness. 

* 

But  Tubal-Cain  had  caught  and  j'oked  the  fire, 
Yoked  it  with  stones  that  bent  the  flaming  spire 
And  made  it  roar  in  prisoned  servitude 
Within  the  furnace,  till  with  force  subdued 
It  changed  all  forms  he  willed  to  work  upon, 
Till  hard  from  soft,  and  soft  from  hard,  he  won. 
The  pliant  clay  he  moulded  as  he  would, 
And  laughed  with  joy  when  'mid  the  heat  it  stood 


THE   LEGEND   OF  JUBAL.  13 

Shaped  as  his  hand  had  chosen,  while  the  mass 
That  from  his  hold,  dark,  obstinate,  would  pass, 
He  drew  all  glowing  from  the  busy  heat, 
All  breathing  as  with  life  that  he  could  beat 
With  thundering  hammer,  making  it  obey 
His  will  creative,  like  the  pale  soft  clay. 
Each  day  he  wrought  and  better  than  he  planned, 
Shape  breeding  shape  beneath  his  restless  hand. 
(The  soul  without  still  helps  the  soul  within, 
And  its  deft  magic  ends  what  we  begin.) 
Nay,  in  his  dreams  his  hammer  he  would  wield 
And  seem  to  see  a  myriad  types  revealed, 
Then  spring  with  wondering  triumphant  cry, 
And,  lest  the  inspiring  vision  should  go  by, 
Would  rush  to  labor  with  that  plastic  zeal 
Which  all  the  passion  of  our  life  can  steal 
For  force  to  work  with.     Each  day  saw  the  birth 
Of  various  forms,  which,  flung  upon  the  earth, 
Seemed  harmless  toys  to  cheat  the  exacting  hour, 
But  were  as  seeds  instinct  with  hidden  power. 
The  axe,  the  club,  the  spiked  wheel,  the  chain, 
Held  silently  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  pain  ; 


14  THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

And  near  them  latent  lay  in  share  and  spade, 

In  the  strong  bar,  the  saw,  and  deep-curved  blade, 

Glad  voices  of  the  hearth  and  harvest-home, 

The  social  good,  and  all  earth's  joy  to  come. 

Thus  to  mixed  ends  wrought  Tubal ;  and  they  say, 

Some  things  he  made  have  lasted  to  this  day ; 

As,  thirty  silver  pieces  that  were  found 

By  Noah's  children  buried  in  the  ground. 

He  made  them  from  mere  hunger  of  device, 

Those  small  white  discs  ;  but  they  became  the  price 

The  traitor  Judas  sold  his  Master  for  ; 

And  men  still  handling  them  in  peace  and  war 

Catch  foul  disease,  that  comes  as  appetite, 

And  lurks  and  clings  as  withering,  damning  blight. 

But  Tubal-Cain  wot  not  of  treacheiy, 

Nor  greedy  lust,  nor  any  ill  to  be, 

Save  the  one  ill  of  sinking  into  nought, 

Banished  from  action  and  act-shaping  thought. 

He  was  the  sire  of  swift-transforming  skill, 

Which  arms  for  conquest  man's  ambitious  will ; 

And  round  him  gladly,  as  his  hammer  rung, 

Gathered  the  elders  and  the  growing  3'oung  : 


THE   LEGEND   OF   JTJBAL.  15 

These  handled  vaguely,  and  those  plied  the  tools, 
Till,  happy  chance  begetting  conscious  rules, 
The  home  of  Cain  with  industry  was  rife, 
And  glimpses  of  a  strong  persistent  life, 
Panting  through  generations  as  one  breath, 
And  filling  with  its  soul  the  blank  of  death. 

Jubal,  too,  watched  the  hammer,  till  his  eyes, 

No  longer  following  its  fall  or  rise, 

Seemed  glad  with  something  that  they  could  not  see, 

But  only  listened  to  —  some  melody, 

Wherein  dumb  longings  inward  speech  had  found, 

Won  from  the  common  store  of  struggling  sound. 

Then,  as  the  metal  shapes  more  various  grew, 

And,  hurled  upon  each  other,  resonance  drew, 

Each  gave  new  tones,  the  revelations  dim 

Of  some  external  soul  that  spoke  for  him  : 

The  hollow  vessel's  clang,  the  clash,  the  boom, 

Like  light  that  makes  wide  spiritual  room 

And  skj-ey  spaces  in  the  spaceless  thought, 

To  Jubal  such  enlarged  passion  brought, 

That  love,  hope,  rage,  and  all  experience, 

Were  fused  in  vaster  being,  fetching  thence 


16  THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

Concords  and  discords,  cadences  and  cries 
That  seemed  from  some  world-shrouded  soul  to  rise, 
Some  rapture  more  intense,  some  mightier  rage, 
Some  living  sea  that  burst  the  bounds  of  man's  brief 
age. 

Then  with  such  blissful  trouble  and  glad  care 

For  growth  within  unborn  as  mothers  bear, 

To  the  far  woods  he  wandered,  listening, 

And  heard  the  birds  their  little  stories  sing 

In  notes  whose  rise  and  fall  seem  melted  speech  — 

Melted  with  tears,  smiles,  glances  —  that  can  reach 

More   quickly   through    our   frame's    deep-winding 

night, 
And   without    thought   raise    thought's    best    fruit, 

delight. 

Pondering,  he  sought  his  home  again  and  heard 
The  fluctuant  changes  of  the  spoken  word  : 
The  deep  remonstrance  and  the  argued  want, 
Insistent  first  in  close  monotonous  chant, 
Next  leaping  upward  to  defiant  stand 
Or  downward  beating  like  the  resolute  hand  ; 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  17 

The  mother's  call,  the  children's  answering  cry, 

The  laugh's  light  cataract  tumbling  from  .on  high  ; 

The  suasive  repetitions  Jabal  taught, 

That  timid  browsing  cattle  homeward  brought : 

The  clear- winged  fugue  of  echoes  vanishing  ; 

And  through  them  all  the  hammer's  rhythmic  ring. 

Jubal  sat  lonely,  all  around  was  dim, 

Yet  his  face  glowed  with  light  revealed  to  him : 

For  as  the  delicate  stream  of  odor  wakes 

The    thought-wed     sentience,    and     some     image 

makes 

From  out  the  mingled  fragments  of  the  past, 
Finely  compact  in  wholeness  that  will  last, 
So  streamed  as  from  the  body  of  each  sound 
Subtler  pulsations,  swift  as  warmth,  which  found 
All  prisoned  germs  and  all  their  powers  unbound, 
Till  thought  self-luminous  flamed  from  memory, 
And  in  creative  vision  wandered  free. 
Then  Jubal,  standing,  rapturous  arms  upraised, 
And  on  the  dark  with  eager  eyes  he  gazed, 
As  had  some  manifested  god  been  there. 
It  was  his  thought  he  saw  :  the  presence  fair 


18  THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

Of  unachieved  achievement,  the  high  task, 
The  mighty  unborn  spirit  that  doth  ask 
With  irresistible  cry  for  blood  and  breath, 
Till  feeding  its  great  life  we  sink  in  death. 

He  said,  "  Were  now  those  mighty  tones  and  cries 

That  from  the  giant  soul  of  earth  arise, 

Those   groans   of    some   great   travail   heard   from 

far, 

Some  power  at  wrestle  with  the  things  that  are, 
Those  sounds  which  vary  with  the  varying'  form 
Of  clay  and  metal,  and  in  sightless  swarm 
Fill  the  wide  space  with  tremors  :  were  these  wed 
To  human  voices  with  such  passion  fed 
As  does  but  glimmer  in  our  common  speech, 
But  might  flame  out  in  tones  whose  changing  reach 
Surpassing  meagre  need,  informs  the  sense 
With  fuller  union,  finer  difference  — 
Were  this  great  vision,  now  obscurely  bright 
As  morning  hills  that  melt  in  new-poured  light, 
Wrought  into  solid  form  and  living  sound, 
Moving  with  ordered  throb  and  sure  rebound. 


I 

THE   LEGEND 


Then  —     Nay,  I  Jubal  will  that 

The  generations  of  our  race  shall  win 

New  life,  that  grows  from  out  the  heart  of  this, 

As  spring  from  winter,  or  a"s  lovers'  bliss 

From  out  the  dull" unknown  of  unwaked  energies." 

Thus  he  resolved,  and  in  the  soul-fed  light 
Of  coming  ages  waited  through  the  night, 
Watching  for  that  near  dawn  whose  chiller  ray 
Showed  but  the  unchanged  world  of  yesterday  ; 
Where  all  the  order  of  his  dream  divine 
La}^  like  Olympian  forms  within  the  mine  ; 
Where  fervor  that  could  fill  the  earthly  round 
With  thronged  joys  of  form-begotten  sound 
Must  shrink  intense  within  the  patient  power 
That  lonely  labors  through  the  niggard  hour. 
Such  patience  have  the  heroes  who  begin, 
Sailing  the  first  toward  lands  which  others  win. 
Jubal  must  dare  as  great  beginners  dare, 
Strike  form's  first  way  in  matter  rude  and  bare, 
And,  yearning  vaguely  toward  the  plenteous  choir 
Of  the  world's  harvest,  make  one  poor  small  lyre. 


20  THE  LEGEND   OF   JTJBAL. 

He  made  it,  and  from  out  its  measured  frame 
Drew  the  harmonic  soul,  whose  answers  came 
With  guidance  sweet  and  lessons  of  delight 
Teaching  to  ear  and  hand* the  blissful  Right, 
Where  strictest  law  is  gladness  to  the  sense, 
And  all  desire  bends  toward  obedience. 
Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song  — 
The  rapturous  word  that  rapturous  notes  prolong 
As   radiance    streams    from    smallest    things    that 

burn, 

Or  thought  of  loving  into  love  doth  turn. 
And  still  his  lyre  gave  companionship 
In  sense-taught  concert  as  of  lip  writh  lip. 
Alone  amid  the  hills  at  first  he  tried 
His  winged  song  ;  then  with  adoring  pride 
And  bridegroom's  joy  at  leading  forth  his  bride, 
He  said,  "  This  wonder  which  my  soul  hath  found, 
This  heart  of  music  in  the  might  of  sound, 
Shall  forthwith  be  the  share  of  all  our  race, 
And  like  the  morning  gladden  common  space : 
The  song  shall  spread  and  swell  as  rivers  do, 
And  I  will  teach  our  youth  with  skill  to  woo 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  21 

This  living  lyre,  to  know  its  secret  will, 
Its  fine  division  of  the  good  and  ill. 
So  shall  men  call  me  sire  of  harmony, 
And  where  great  Song  is,  there  my  life  shall  be." 
Thus  glorying  as  a  god  beneficent, 
Forth  from  his  solitary  joy  he  went 
To  bless  mankind.     It  was  at  evening, 
When  shadows  lengthen  from  each  westward  thing, 
When  imminence  of  change  makes  sense  more  fine, 
And  light  seems  holier  in  its  grand  decline. 
The  fruit-trees  wore  their  studded  coronal, 
Earth  and  her  children  were  at  festival, 
Glowing  as  with  one  heart  and  one  consent  — 
Thought,  love,  trees,  rocks,  in  sweet  warm  radiance 
blent. 

The  tribe  of  Cain  was  resting  on  the  ground, 
The  various  ages  wreathed  in  one  broad  round. 
Here  lay,  while  children  peeped  o'er  his  huge  thighs, 
The  sinewy  man  imbrowned  by  centuries  ; 
Here  the  broad-bosomed  mother  of  the  strong 
Looked,  like  Demeter,  placid  o'er  the  throng 


22  THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

Of  young  Uthe  forms  whose  rest  was  movement  too  — 

Tricks,  prattle,  nods,  and  laughs  that  lightly  flew, 

And  swayings  as  of  flower-beds  where  Love  blew. 

For  all  had  feasted  well  upon  the  flesh 

Of  juicy  fruits,  on  nuts,  and  honey  fresh, 

And  now  their  wine  was  health-bred  merriment, 

Which  through  the  generations  circling  went, 

Leaving  none  sad,  for  even  father  Cain 

Smiled  as  a  Titan  might,  despising  pain. 

Jabal  sat  circled  with  a  playful  ring 

Of  children,  lambs  and  whelps,  whose  gambolling, 

With  tiny  hoofs,  paws,  hands,  and  dimpled  feet, 

Made  barks,  bleats,  laughs,  in  pretty  hubbub  meet. 

But  Tubal's  hammer  rang  from  far  away, 

Tubal  alone  would  keep  no  holiday, 

His  furnace  must  not  slack  for  any  feast, 

For  of  all  hardship,  work  he  counted  least ; 

He  scorned  all  rest  but  sleep,  where  every  dream 

Made  his  repose  more  potent  action  seem. 

Yet  with  health's  nectar  some  strange  thirst  was  blent, 
The  fateful  growth,  the  unnamed  discontent, 


THE  LEGEND   OF  JTJBAL.  23 

The  inward  shaping  toward  some  unborn  power, 
Some  deeper-breathing  act,  the  being's  flower. 
After  all  gestures,  words,  and  speech  of  eyes, 
The  soul  had  more  to  tell,  and  broke  in  sighs. 
Then  from  the  east,  with  glory  on  his  head 
Such  as  low-slanting  beams  on  corn- waves  spread, 
Came  Jubal  with  his  lyre  :  there  'mid  the  throng, 
Where  the  blank  space  was,  poured  a  solemn  song, 
Touching  his  lyre  to  full  harmonic  throb 
And  measured  pulse,  with  cadences  that  sob, 
Exult  and  cr}T,  and  search  the  inmost  deep 
Where  the  dark  sources  of  new  passion  sleep. 
Joy  took  the  air,  and  took  each  breathing  soul, 
Embracing  them  in  one  entranced  whole, 
Yet  thrilled  each  varying  frame  to  various  ends, 
As  Spring  new-waking  through  the  creature  sends 
Or  rage  .or  tenderness  ;  more  plenteous  life 
Here  breeding  dread,  and  there  a  fiercer  strife. 
He  who  had  lived  through  twice  three  centuries, 
Whose  months  monotonous,  like  trees  on  trees 
In  hoary  forests,  stretched  a  backward  maze, 
Dreamed  himself  dimly  through  the  travelled  days 


24  THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL. 

Till  in  clear  light  he  paused,  and  felt  the  sun 
That  warmed  him  when  he  was  a  little  one  ; 
Knew  that  true  heaven,  the  recovered  past, 
The  dear  small  Known  amid  the  Unknown  vast, 
And  in  that  heaven  wept.     But  younger  limbs 
Thrilled  toward  the  future,  that  bright  land  which 

swims 

In  western  glory,  isles  and  streams  and  bays, 
Where  hidden  pleasures  float  in  golden  haze. 
And  in  all  these  the  rhythmic  influence, 
Sweetly  o'ercharging  the  delighted  sense,- 
Flowed  out  in  movements,  little  waves  that  spread 
Enlarging,  till  in  tidal  union  led 
The  j-ouths  and  maidens  both  alike  long-tressed, 
By  grace-inspiring  melody  possessed, 
Rose  in  slow  dance,  with  beauteous  floating  swerve 
Of  limbs  and  hair,  and  mairy  a  melting  curve 
Of  ringed  feet  swayed  by  each  close-linked  palm : 
Then  Jubal  poured  more  rapture  in  his  psalm, 
The  dance  fired  music,  music  fired  the  dance, 
The  glow  diffusive  lit  each  countenance, 
Till  all  the  circling  tribe  arose  and  stood 
With  glad  yet  awful  shock  of  that  mysterious  good. 


THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  25 

Even  Tubal  caught  the  sound,  and  wondering  came, 
Urging  his  sooty  bulk  like  smoke-wrapt  flame 
Till  he  could  see  his  brother  with  the  ryre, 
The  work  for  which  he  lent  his  furnace-fire 
And  diligent  hammer,  witting  nought  of  this  — 
This  power  in  metal  shape  which  made  strange  bliss, 
Entering  within  him  like  a  dream  full-fraught 
With  new  creations  finished  in  a  thought. 

The  sun  had  sunk,  but  music  still  was  there, 
And  when  this  ceased,  still  triumph  filled  the  air : 
It  seemed  the  stars  were  shining  with  delight 
And  that  no  night  was  ever  like  this  night. 
All  clung  with  praise  to  Jubal :  some  besought 
That  he  would  teach  them  his  new  skill ;  some  caught,. 
Swiftly  as  smiles  are  caught  in  looks  that  meet, 
The  tone's  melodic  change  and  rhythmic  beat : 
'Twas  easy  following  where  invention  trod  — 
All  eyes  can  see  when  light  flows  out  from  God. 

And  thus  did  Jubal  to  his  race  reveal 
Music  their  larger  soul,  where  woe  and  weal 


26  THE   LEGEND  OF   JUBAL. 

Filling  the  resonant  chords,  the  song,  the  dance, 

Moved  with  a  wider-winged  utterance. 

Now  many  a  tyre  was  fashioned,  man}7  a  song 

liaised  echoes  new,  old  echoes  to  prolong, 

Till  things  of  Jubal's  making  were  so  rife, 

"  Hearing  myself,"  he  said,  "  hems  in  my  life, 

And  I  will  get  me  to  some  far-off  land, 

Where  higher  mountains  under  -heaven  stand 

And  touch  the  blue  at  rising  of  the  stars, 

Whose   song   they  hear  where  no  rough  mingling 

mars 
The   great  clear   voices.      Such   lands   there   must 

be, 

Where  varying  forms  make  varying  symphony  — 
Where  other  thunders  roll  amid  the  hills, 
Some  mightier  wind  a  mightier  forest  fills 
With  other  strains  through  other-shapen  boughs  ; 
Where  bees  and  birds  and  beasts  that  hunt  or  browse 
Will  teach  me  songs  I  know  not.     Listening  there, 
My  life  shall  grow  like  trees  both  tall  and  fair 
That  rise  and  spread  and  bloom  toward  fuller  fruit 

each  j^ear." 


THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  27 

lie  took  a  raft,  and  travelled  with  the  stream 
Southward  for  many  a  league,  till  he  might  deem 
He  saw  at  last  the  pillars  of  the  sky, 
Beholding  mountains  whose  white  majesty 
Rushed  through  him  as  new  awe,  and  made  new  song 
That  swept  with  fuller  wave  the  chords  along, 
Weighting  his  voice  with  deep  religious  chime, 
The  iteration  of  slow  chant  sublime. 

It  was  the  region  long  inhabited 
By  all  the  race  of  Seth  ;  and  Jubal  said, 
u  Here  have  I  found  my  thirsty  soul's  desire, 
Eastward  the  hills  touch  heaven,  and  evening's  fire- 
Flames  through  deep  waters  ;  I  will  take  my  rest, 
And  feed  anew  from  my  great  mother's  breast, 
The  sky-clasped  Earth,  whose  voices  nurture  me 
As  the  flowers'  sweetness  doth  the  honey-bee." 
He  lingered  wandering  for  many  an  age, 
And,  sowing  music,  made  high  heritage 
For  generations  far  bej'ond  the  Flood  — 
For  the  poor  late-begotten  human  brood 
Born  to  life's  weary  brevity  and  perilous  good. 


28  THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

And  ever  as  he  travelled  he  would  climb- 

The  farthest  mountain,  yet  the  heavenly  chime, 

The  mighty  tolling  of  the  far-off  spheres 

Beating  their  pathway,  never  touched  his  ears. 

But  wheresoe'er  he  rose,  the  heavens  rose, 

And  the  far-gazing  mountain  could  disclose 

Nought  but  a  wider  earth  ;  until  one  height 

Showed  him  the  ocean  stretched  in  liquid  light, 

And  he  could  hear  its  multitudinous  roar, 

Its  plunge  and  hiss  upon  the  pebbled  shore : 

Then  Jubal  silent  sat,  and  touched  his  lyre  no  more. 

He  thought,  u  The  world  is  great,  but  I  am  weak, 
And  where  the  sky  bends  is  no  solid  peak 
To  give  me  footing,  but  instead,  this  main 
Like  nryriad  maddened  horses  thundering  o'er  the 
plain.1 

u  New  voices  come  to  me  where'er  I  roam, 
M}-  heart  too  widens  with  its  widening  home  : 
But  song  grows  weaker,  and  the  heart  must  break 
For  lack  of  voice,  OT  fingers  that  can  wake 


THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  29 

The  lyre's  full  answer ;  nay,  its  chords  were  all 
Too  few  to  meet  the  growing  spirit's  call. 
The  former  songs  seem  little,  yet  no  more 
Can  soul,  hand,  voice,  with  interchanging  lore 
Tell  what  the  earth  is  saying  unto  me  : 
The  secret  is  too  great,  I  hear  confusedly. 

' '  No  farther  will  I  travel :  once  again 

My  brethren  I  will  see,  and  "that  fair  plain 

Where  I  and  song  were  born.     There  fresh- voiced 

youth 

Will  pour  my  strains  with  all  the  early  truth 
Which  now  abides  not  in  my  voice  and  hands, 
But  only  in  the  soul,  the  will  that  stands 
Helpless  to  move.     My  tribe  remembering 
Will  cry,   '  'Tis  he  ! '  and  run  to  greet  me,  welcom 
ing." 

The  way  was  weary.     Many  a  date-palm  grew, 
Ancl  shook  out  clustered  gold  against  the  blue, 
While  Jubal,  guided  by  the  steadfast  spheres, 
Sought  the  dear  home  of  those  first  eager  years, 


30  THE  LEGEND   OF   JTJBAL. 

When,  with  fresh  vision  fed,  the  fuller  will 

Took  living  outward  shape  in  pliant  skill ; 

For  still  he  hoped  to  find  the  former  things, 

And  the  warm  gladness  recognition  brings. 

His  footsteps  erred  among  the  mazy  woods 

And  long  illusive  sameness  of  the  floods, 

Winding    and    wandering.     Through    far   regions, 

strange 

With  Gentile  homes  and  faces,  did  he  range, 
And  left  his  music  in  their  memory, 
And  left  at  last,  when  nought  besides  would  free 
His    homeward    steps    from    clinging    hands    and 

cries, 

The  ancient  Lyre.     And  now  in  ignorant  eyes 
No  sign  remained  of  Jubal,  Lamech's  son, 
That  mortal  frame  wherein  was  first  begun 
The  immortal  life  of  song.     His  withered  brow 
Pressed  over  eyes  that  held  no  lightning  now, 
His  locks  streamed  whiteness  on  the  hurrying  air, 
The  unresting  soul  had  worn  itself  quite  bare 
Of  beauteous  token,  as  the  outworn  might 
Of  oaks  slow  dying,  gaunt  in  summer's  light. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL.  31 

His  full  deep  voice  toward  thinnest  treble  ran : 
He  was  the  rune-writ  story  of  a  man. 
And  so  at  last  he  neared  the  well-known  land, 
Could  see  the  hills  in  ancient  order  stand 
With  friendly  faces  whose  familiar  gaze 
Looked  through  the  sunshine  of  his  childish  days  ; 
Knew  the  deep-shadowed  folds  of  hanging  woods, 
And  seemed  to  see  the  selfsame  insect  broods 
Whirling  and  quivering  o'er  the  flowers  —  to  hear 
The  selfsame  cuckoo  making  distance  near. 
Yea,  the  dear  Earth,  with  mother's  constancy, 
Met  and  embraced  him,  and  said,  "  Thou  art  he  ! 
This  wTas  thy  cradle,  here  my  breast  was  thine, 
Where  feeding,  thou  didst  all  thy  life  intwine 
With  my  sky- wedded  life  in  heritage  divine." 

But  wending  ever  through  the  watered  plain, 

Firm  not  to  rest  save  in  the  home  of  Cain, 

He  saw  dread  Change,  with  dubious  face  and  cold 

That  never  kept  a  welcome  for  the  old, 

Like  some  strange  heir  upon  the  hearth,  arise 

Sa}ring,  "  This  home  is  mine."     He  thought  his  eyes 


32  THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL. 

Mocked  all  deep  memories,  as  things  new  made, 

Usurping  sense,  make  old  things  shrink  and  fade 

And  seem  ashamed  to  meet  the  staring  day. 

His  memory  saw  a  small  foot-trodden  way, 

His  eyes  a  broad  far-stretching  paven  road 

Bordered  with  many  a  tomb  and  fair  abode  ; 

The  little  city  that  once  nestled  low 

As  buzzing  groups  about  some  central  glow, 

Spread   like   a   murmuring   crowd   o'er   plain    and 

steep, 

Or  monster  huge  in  heavy-breathing  sleep. 
His  heart  grew  faint,  and  tremblingly  he  sank 
Close  by  the  wayside  on  a  weed-grown  bank, 
Not  far  from  where  a  new-raised  temple  stood, 
Sky-roofed,  and  fragrant  with  wrought  cedar-wood. 
The  morning  sun  was  high  ;  his  rays  fell  hot 
On  this  hap-chosen,  dusty,  common  spot, 
On  the  dry  withered  grass  and  withered  man  : 
That  wondrous  frame  where  melody  began 
Lay  as  a  tomb  defaced  that  no  eye  cared  to  scan. 
But  while  he  sank  far  music  reached  his  ear. 
He  listened  until  wonder  silenced  fear, 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  33 

And  gladness  wonder  ;  for  the  broadening  stream 
Of  sound  advancing  was  his  early  dream, 
Brought  like  fulfilment  of  forgotten  prayer ; 
As  if  his  soul,  breathed  out  upon  the  air, 
Had  held  the  invisible  seeds  of  harmony 
Quick  with  the  various  strains  of  life  to  be. 
He  listened  :  the  sweet  mingled  difference 
"With  charm  alternate  took  the  meeting  sense ; 
Then  bursting  like  some  shield-broad  lily  red, 
Sudden  and  near  the  trumpet's  notes  out-spread, 
And  soon  his  eyes  could  see  the  metal  flower, 
Shining  upturned,  out  on  the  morning  pour 
Its  incense  audible  ;  could  see  a  train 
From  out  the  street  slow-winding  on  the  plain 
With  lyres  and  cymbals,  flutes  and  psalteries, 
While  men,  youths,  maids,  in  concert  sang  to  these 
With  various  throat,  or  in  succession  poured, 
Or  in  full  volume  mingled.     But  one  word 
Ruled  each  recurrent  rise  and  answering  fall, 
As  when  the  multitudes  adoring  call 
On  some  great  name  divine,  their  common  soul, 
The  common  need,  love,  joy,  that  knits  them  in  one 
whole.  3 


34  THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

The  word  was    "  Jubal !  "  .  .  .  "  Jubal"  filled   the 

air, 

And  seemed  to  ride  aloft,  a  spirit  there, 
Creator  of  the  choir,  the  full-fraught  strain 
That  grateful  rolled  itself  to  him  again. 
The  aged  man  adust  upon  the  bank  — 
Whom  no  eye  saw  —  at  first  with  rapture  drank 
The  bliss  of  music,  then,  with  swelling  heart, 
Felt,  this  was  his  own  being's  greater  part, 
The  universal  joy  once  born  in  him. 
.But  when  the  train,  with  living  face  and  limb 
And  vocal  breath,  came  nearer  and  more  near, 
The  longing  grew  that  they  should  hold  him  dear ; 
Him,  Lamech's  son,  whom  all  their  fathers  knew, 
The  breathing  Jubal  —  him,  to  whom  their  love  was 

due. 

All  was  forgotten  but  the  burning  need 
To  claim  his  fuller  self,  to  claim  the  deed 
That  lived  away  from  him,  and  grew  apart, 
While  he  as  from  -a  tomb,  with  lonely  heart, 
Warmed  by  no  meeting  glance,  no  hand  that  pressed, 
Lay  chill  amid  the  life  his  life  had  blessed. 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  85 

What  though  his  song  should  spread  from  man's 

small  race 

Out  through  the  myriad  worlds  that  people  space, 
And  make  the  heavens  one  joy-diffusing  choir  ?  — 
Still  'mid  that  vast  would  throb  the  keen  desire 
Of  this  poor  aged  flesh,  this  eventide, 
This  twilight  soon  in  darkness  to  subside, 
This  little  pulse  of  self,  that,  having  glowed 
Through  thrice  three  centuries,  and  divinely  strewed 
The  light  of  music  through  the  vague  of  sound, 
Ached  smallness  still  in  good  that  had  no  bound. 


- 


For  no  eye  saw  him,  while  with  loving  pride 
Each  voice  with  each  in  praise  of  Jubal  vied. 
Must  he  in  conscious  trance,  dumb,  helpless  lie 
While  all  that  ardent  kindred  passed  him  by  ? 
His  flesh  cried  out  to  live  with  living  men, 
And  join  that  soul  which  to  the  inward  ken 
Of  all  the  hymning  train  was  present  there. 
Strong  passion's  daring  sees  not  aught  to  dare : 
The  frost-locked  starkness  of  his  frame  low-bent, 
His  voice's  penury  of  tones  long  spent, 


36  THE   LEGEND   OF   JUBAL. 

He  felt  not ;  all  his  being  leaped  in  flame 
To  meet  his  kindred  as  they  onward  came 
Slackening  and  wheeling  toward  the  temple's  face  : 
He  rushed  before  them  to  the  glittering  space, 
And,  with  a  strength  that  was  but  strong  desire, 
Cried,  u  I  am  Jubal,  I !   ...  I  made  the  lyre  !  " 

The  tones  amid  a  lake  of  silence  fell 

Broken  and  strained,  as  if  a  feeble  bell 

Had  tuneless  pealed  the  triumph  of  a  land 

To  listening  crowds  in  expectation  spanned. 

Sudden  came  showers  of  laughter  on  that  lake  ; 

They  spread  along  the  train  from  front  to  wake 

In  one  great  storm  of  merriment,  while  he 

Shrank  doubting  whether  he  could  Jubal  be, 

And  not  a  dream  of  Jubal,  whose  rich  vein 

Of  passionate  music  came  with  that  dream-pain, 

Wherein    the    sense    slips     off    from    each    loved 

thing, 

And  all  appearance  is  mere  vanishing. 
But  ere  the  laughter  died  from  out  the  rear, 
Anger  in  front  saw  profanation  near ; 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  37 

Jubal  was  but  a  name  in  each  man's  faith 

For  glorious  power  untouched  by  that  slow  death 

Which  creeps  with  creeping  time  ;  this  too,  the  spot, 

And  this  the  day,  it  must  be  crime  to  blot, 

Even  with  scoffing  at  a  madman's  lie  : 

Jubal  was  not  a  name  to  wed  with  mockery. 

Two  rushed  upon  him  :  two,  the  most  devout 

In  honor  of  great  Jubal,  thrust  him  out, 

And  beat  him  with  their  flutes.     'Twas  little  need  ; 

He  strove  not,  cried  not,  but  with  tottering  speed, 

As  if  the  scorn  and  howls  were  driving  wind 

That  urged  his  body,  serving  so  the  mind 

Which  could  but  shrink  and  yearn,  he  sought  the 

screen 

Of  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen. 
The  immortal  name  of  Jubal  filled  the  sky, 
While  Jubal  lonely  laid  him  down  to  die. 
He  said  within  his  soul,  Ci  This  is  the  end  : 
O'er  all  the  earth  to  where  the  heavens  bend 
And  hem  men's  travel,  I  have  breathed  my  soul : 
I  lie  here  now  the  remnant  of  that  whole, 


38  THE  LEGEND   OF  JUBAL. 


of  a  life,  a  lonely  pain  ; 
As  far-off  rivers  to  my  thirst  were  vain, 
So    of    my   mighty   years    nought    comes    to    me 
again. 

"  Is  the  day  'sinking?     Softest  coolness  springs 
From  something  round  me  :  dewy  shadowy  wings 
Enclose  me  all  around  —  no,  not  above  — 
Is  moonlight  there?     I  see  a  face  of  love, 
Fair  as  sweet  music  when  nry  heart  was  strong  : 
Yea  —  art  thou  come  again  to  me,  great  Song?  " 

The  face  bent  over  him  like  silver  night 

In  long-remembered  summers  ;  that  calm  light 

Of  days  which  shine  in  firmaments  of  thought, 

That  past  unchangeable,  from  change  still  wrought. 

And  there  were  tones  that  with  the  vision  blent  : 

He  knew  not  if  that  gaze  the  music  sent, 

Or  music  that  calm  gaze  :  to  hear,  to  see, 

Was  but  one  undivided  ecstasy  : 

The  raptured  senses  melted  into  one, 

And  parting  life  a  moment's  freedom  won 


I 

THE   LEGEND    OF-  JI 


From  in  and  outer,  as  a  little  child 

Sits  on  a  bank  and  sees  blue  heavens  mild 

Down  in  the  water,  and  forgets  its  limbs, 

And  knoweth   nought   save   the   blue   heaven   that 

swims. 

"  Jubal,"  the  face  said,  "  I  am  thy  loved  Past, 
The  soul  that  makes  thee  one  from  first  to  last. 
I  am  the  angel  of  thy  life  and  death, 
Thy  outbreathed  being  drawing  its  last  breath. 
Am  I  not  thine  alone,  a  dear  dead  bride 
Who  blest  thy  lot  above  all  men's  beside  ? 
Thy  bride  whom  thou  wouldst  never  change,   nor 

take 

Any  bride  living,  for  that  dead  one's  sake  ? 
Was  I  not  all  thy  yearning  and  delight, 
Thy  chosen  search,  thy  senses'  beauteous  Right, 
Which  still  had  been  the  hunger  of  thy  frame 
In  central  heaven,  hadst  thou  been  still  the  same? 
Wouldst  thou  have  asked  aught  else  from  any  god  — 
Whether  with  gleaming  feet  on  earth  he  trod 
Or  thundered  through  the  skies  —  aught  else  for  share 
Of  mortal  good,  than  in  thy  soul  to  bear 


40  THE  LEGEND   OF   JTJBAL. 

The  growth  of  song,  and  feel  the  sweet  unrest 
Of  the  world's  spring-tide  in  thy  conscious  breast? 
No,  thou  hadst  grasped  thy  lot  with  all  its  pain, 
Nor  loosed  it  any  painless  lot  to  gain 
Where  music's  voice  was  silent ;  for  thy  fate 
Was  human  music's  self  incorporate  : 
Thy  senses'  keenness  and  thy  passionate  strife 
Were  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  her  womb  of  life. 
And  greatly  hast  thou  lived,  for  not  alone 
With  hidden  raptures  were  her  secrets  shown, 
Buried  within  thee,  as  the  purple  light 
Of  gems  may  sleep  in  solitary  night ; 
But  thy  expanding  joy  was  still  to  give, 
And  with  the  generous  air  in  song  to  live 
Feeding  the  wave  of  ever- widening  bliss 
Where  fellowship  means  equal  perfectness. 
And  on  the  mountains  in  thy  wandering 
Thy  feet  were  beautiful  as  blossomed  spring, 
That  turns  the  leafless  wood  to  love's  glad  home, 
For  with  thy  coming  Melody  was  come. 
This  was  thy  lot,  to  feel,  create,  bestow, 
And  that  immeasurable  life  to  know 


THE  LEGEND   OF   JUBAL.  41 

From  which  the  fleshly  self  falls  shrivelled,  dead, 
A  seed  primeval  that  has  forests  bred. 
It  is  the  glory  of  the  heritage 
Thy  life  has  left,  that  makes  thy  outcast  age  : 
Thy  limbs  shall  lie  dark,  tombless  on  this  sod, 
Because  thou  shinest  in  man's  soul,  a  god, 
Who  found  and  gave  new  passion  and  new  joy 
That  nought  but  Earth's  destruction  can  destroy. 
Thy  gifts  to  give  was  thine  of  men  alone  : 
'Twas  but  in  giving  that  thou  couldst  atone 
For  too  much  wealth  amid  their  poverty."  — 

The  words  seemed  melting  into  symphony, 
The  wings  upbore  him,  and  the  gazing  song 
Was  floating  him  the  heavenly  space  along, 
Where  mighty  harmonies  all  gently  fell 
Through  veiling  vastness,  like  the  far-off  bell, 
Till,  ever  onward  through  the  choral  blue, 
He  heard  more  faintly  and  more  faintly  knew, 
Quitting  mortality,  a  quenched  sun-wave, 
The  All-creating  Presence  for  his  grave. 
1869. 


AGATHA. 


AGATHA. 


COME  with  me  to  the  mountain,  not  where  rocks 
Soar  harsh  above  the  troops  of  hurrying  pines. 
But  where  the  earth  spreads  soft  and  rounded  breasts 
To  feed  her  children  ;  where  the  generous  hills 
Lift  a  green  isle  betwixt  the  sky  and  plain 
To  keep  some  Old  World  things  aloof  from  change. 
Here  too  'tis  hill  and  hollow :  new-born  streams 
With  sweet  enforcement,  joyously  compelled 
Like  laughing  children,  hurry  down  the  steeps, 
And  make  a  dimpled  chase  athwart  the  stones  ; 
Pine-woods  are  black  upon  the  heights,  the  slopes 
Are  green  with  pasture,  and  the  bearded  corn 
Fringes  the  blue  above  the  sudden  ridge : 
A  little  world  whose  round  horizon  cuts 

45 


46  AGATHA. 

This  isle  of  hills  with  heaven  for  a  sea. 
Save  in  clear  moments  when  southwestward  gleams 
France  by  the  Rhine,  melting  anon  to  haze. 
The  monks  of  old  chose  here  their  still  retreat, 
And  called  it  by  the  Blessed  Virgin's  name, 
S  a  net  a  Maria,  which  the  peasant's  tongue, 
Speaking  from  out  the  parent's  heart  that  turns 
All  loved  things  into  little  things,  has  made 

Sanct  Miirgen,  —  Hoi}*  little  Mary,  dear 

• 

As  all  the  sweet  home  "things  she  smiles  upon, 
The  children  and  the  cows,  the  apple-trees, 
The  cart,  the  plough,  all  named  with  that  caress 
Which  feigns  them  little,  easy  to  be  held, 
Familiar  to  the  C3res  and  hand  and  heart. 
What  though  a  Queen  ?     She  puts  her  crown  away 
And  with  her  little  Boy  wears  common  clothes, 
Caring  for  common  wants,  remembering 
That  day  when  good  Saint  Joseph  left  his  work 
To  many  her  with  humble  trust  sublime. 

The  monks  are  gone,  their  shadows  fall  no  more 
Tall-frocked  and  cowled  athwart  the  evening  fields 


AGATHA.  47 

At  milking  time  ;  their  silent  corridors 

Are  turned  to  homes  of  bare-armed,  aproned  men, 

Who  toil  for  wife  and  children.     But  the  bells, 

Pealing  on  high  from  two  quaint  convent  towers, 

Still  ring  the  Catholic  signals,  summoning 

To  grave  remembrance  of  the  larger  life 

That  bears  our  own,  like  perishable  fruit 

Upon  its  heaven-wide  branches.     At  their  sound 

The  shepherd-boy  far  off  upon  the  hill. 

The  workers  with  the  saw  and  at  the  forge, 

The  triple  generation  round  the  hearth,  — 

Grandames  and  mothers  and  the  flute-voiced  girls,  — 

Fall  on  their  knees,  and  send  forth  prayerful  cries 

To  the  kind  Mother  with  the  little  Boy, 

Who  pleads  for  helpless  men  against  the  storm, 

Lightning  and  plagues  and  all  terrific  shapes 

Of  power  supreme. 

Within  the  prettiest  hollow  of  these  hills, 

Just  as  you  enter  it,  upon  the  slope 

Stands  a  low  cottage  neighbored  cheerily 

By  running  water,  which,  at  farthest  end 

Of  the  same  hollow,  turns  a  heavy  mill, 


48  AGATHA. 

And  feeds  the  pasture  for  the  miller's  cows, 
Blanchi  and  Nageli,  Veilchen  and  the  rest, 
Matrons  with  faces  as  Griselda  mild, 
Coming  at  call.     And  on  the  farthest  height 
A  little  tower  looks  out  above  the  pines, 
Where  mounting  you  will  find  a  sanctuary 
*Open  and  still ;  without,  the  silent  crowd 
Of  heaven-planted,  incense-mingling  flowers  ; 
Within,  the  altar  where  the  Mother  sits 
'Mid  votive  tablets  hung  from  far-off  3rears 
By  peasants  succored  in  the  peril  of  fire, 
Fever,  or  flood,  who  thought  that  Ma^'s  love, 
Willing  but  not  omnipotent,  had  stood 
Between  their  lives  and  that  dread  power  which  slew 
Their  neighbor  at  their  side.     The  chapel  bell 
Will  melt  to  gentlest  music  ere  it  reach 
That  cottage  on  the  slope,  whose  garden-gate 
Has  caught  the  rose-tree  boughs,  and  stands  ajar ; 
So  does  the  door,  to  let  the  sunbeams  in  ; 
For  in  the  slanting  sunbeams  angels  come 
And  visit  Agatha  who  dwells  within,  — 
Old  Agatha,  whose  cousins  Kate  and  Nell 


AGATHA.  49 

Are  housed  by  her  in  Love  and  Duty's  name, 
They  being  feeble,  with  small  withered  wits, 
And  she  believing  that  the  higher  gift 
Was  given  to  be  shared.     So  Agatha 
Shares  her  one  room,  all  neat  on  afternoons, 
As  if  some  memory  were  sacred  there 
And  every  thing  within  the  four  low  walls 
An  honored  relic. 

One  long  summer's  day 
An  angel  entered  at  the  rose-hung  gate, 
With  skirts  pale  blue,  a  brow  to  quench  the  pearl, 
Hair  soft  and  blonde  as  infants',  plenteous 
As  hers  who  made  the  wavy  lengths  once  speak 
The  grateful  worship  of  a  rescued  soul. 
The  angel  paused  before  the  open  door 
To  give  good-da}'.     •'  Come  in,"  said  Agatha. 
I  followed  close,  and  watched  and  listened  there. 
The  angel  was  a  lady,  noble,  young, 
Taught  in  all  seemliness  that  fits  a  court, 
All  lore  that  shapes  the  mind  to  delicate  use, 
Yet  quiet,  lowly,  as  a  meek  white  dove 
That  with  its  presence  teaches  gentleness. 

4 


50  AGATHA. 

Men  called  her  Countess  Linda  ;  little  girls 
In  Freiburg  town,  orphans  whom  she  caressed, 
Said  Mamma  Linda  :  yet  her  years  were  few, 
Her  outward  beauties  all  in  budding- time, 
Her  virtues  the  aroma  of  the  plant 
That  dwells  in  all  its  being,  root,  stem,  leaf, 
And  waits  not  ripeness. 

"Sit,"  said  Agatha. 

Her  cousins  were  at  work  in  neighboring  homes, 
But  yet  she  was  not  lonely  ;  all  things  round 
Seemed  filled  with  noiseless  yet  responsive  life, 
As  of  a  child  at  breast  that  gently  clings  : 
Not  sunlight  only  or  the  breathing  flowers 
Or  the  swift  shadows  of  the  birds  and  bees, 
But  all  the  household  goods,  which,  polished  fair 
By  hands  that  cherished  them  for  service  done, 
Shone  as  with  glad  content.     The  wooden  beams 
Dark  and  yet  friendly,  easy  to  be  reached, 
Bore  three  white  crosses  for  a  speaking  sign ; 
The  walls  had  little  pictures  hung  a-row, 
Telling  the  stories  of  Saint  Ursula, 
And  Saint  Elizabeth,  the  lowly  queen  ; 


AGATHA.  51 

And  on  the  bench  that  served  for  table  too, 
Skirting  the  wall  to  save  the  narrow  space, 
There  la}T  the  Catholic  books,  inherited 
From  those  old  times  when  printing  still  was  young 
With  stout-limbed  promise,  like  a  sturdy  boy. 
And  in  the  farthest  corner  stood  the  bed 
Where  o'er  the  pillow  hung  two  pictures  wreathed 
With  fresh-plucked  ivy  :  one  the  Virgin's  death, 
And  one  her  flowering  tomb,  while  high  above 
She  smiling  bends,  and  lets  her  girdle  down 
For  ladder  to  the  soul  that  cannot  trust 
In  life  which  outlasts  burial.     Agatha 
Sat  at  her  knitting,  aged,  upright,  slim, 
And  spoke  her  welcome  with  mild  dignity. 
She  kept  the  company  of  kings  and  queens 
And  mitred  saints  who  sat  below  the  feet 
Of  Francis  with  the  ragged  frock  and  wounds  ; 
And  Rank  for  her  meant  Duty,  various, 
Yet  equal  in  its  worth,  done  worthily. 
Command  was  service  ;  humblest  service  done 
B}r  willing  and  discerning  souls  was  glory. 
Fair  Countess  Linda  sat  upon  the  bench, 


52  AGATHA. 

Close  fronting  the  old  knitter,  and  they  talked 
With  sweet  antiphony  of  young  and  old. 

AGATHA. 

You  like  our  valley,  lady  ?     I  am  glad 

You  thought  it  well  to  come  again.     But  rest  — 

The  walk  is  long  from  Master  Michael's  inn. 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

Yes,  but  no  walk  is  prettier. 

AGATHA. 

It  is  true : 

There  lacks  no  blessing  here,  the  waters  all 
Have  virtues  like  the  garments  of  the  Lord, 
And  heal  much  sickness  ;  then,  the  crops  and  cows 
Flourish  past  speaking,  and  the  garden  flowers, 
Pink,  blue,  and  purple,  'tis  a  joy  to  see 
How  they  yield  honey  for  the  singing  bees. 
I  would  fche  whole  world  were  as  good  a  home. 


AGATHA.  53 


CCXPNTESS    LINDA. 

And  you  are  well  off,  Agatha  ?  —  your  friends 
Left  you  a  certain  bread  :  is  it  not  so? 

AGATHA. 

Not  so  at  all,  clear  lady.     I  had  nought, 

Was  a  poor  orphan  ;  but  I  came  to  tend 

Here  in  this  house,  an  old  afflicted  pair, 

Who  wore  out  slowly  ;  and  the  last  who  died, 

Full  thirty  }*ears  ago,  left  me  this  roof 

And  all  the  household  stuff.     It  was  great  wealth ; 

And  so  I  had  a  home  for  Kate  and  Nell. 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

But  how,  then,  have  you  earned  your  daily  bread 
These  thirty  years  ? 

AGATHA. 

Oh,  that  is  easy  earning. 
We  help  the  neighbors,  and  our  bit  and  sup 


54  AGATHA. 

Is  never  failing  :  they  have  work  for  us 
In  house  and  field,  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends, 
Patching  and  mending,  turning  o'er  the  hay, 
Holding  sick  children,  —  there  is  always  work  ; 
And  they  are  very  good,  —  the  neighbors  are  : 
Weigh  not  our  bits  of  wrork  with  weight  and  scale, 
But  glad  themselves  with  giving  us  good  shares 
Of  meat  and  drink  ;  and  in  the  big  farm-house 
When  cloth  comes  home  from  weaving,  the  good  wife 
Cuts  me  a  piece,  —  this  very  gown,  —  and  says, 
"  Here,  Agatha,  you  old  maid,  you  have  time 
TQ  pray  for  Hans  who  is  gone  soldiering : 
The  saints  might  help  him,  and  they  have  much  to  do, 
'Twere  well  they  were  besought  to  think  of  him." 
She  spoke  half  jesting,  but  I  pra}r,  I  pray 
For  poor  young  Hans.     I  take  it  much  to  heart 
That  other  people  are  worse  off  than  I,  — 
I  ease  my  soul  with  praying  for  them  all. 

COUNTESS   LINDA. 

That  is  your  way  of  singing,  Agatha  ; 


AGATHA.  55 

Just  as  the  nightingales  pour  forth  sad  songs, 

And  when  they  reach  men's  ears  they  make  men's 

hearts 
Feel  the  more  kindly. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  I  cannot  sing : 

My  voice  is  hoarse,  and  oft  I  think  my  prayers 
Are  foolish,  feeble  things  ;  for  Christ  is  good 
Whether  I  pray  or  not,  —  the  Virgin's  heart 
Is  kinder  far  than  mine  ;  and  then  I  stop 
And  feel  I  can  do  nought  towards  helping  men, 
Till  out  it  comes,  like  tears  that  will  not  hold, 
And  I  must  pray  again  for  all  the  world. 
'  Tis  good  to  me,  —  I  mean  the  neighbors  are  : 
To  Kate  and  Nell  too.     I  have  money  saved 
To  go  on  pilgrimage  the  second  time. 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

And  do  you  mean  to  go  on  pilgrimage 
With  all  your  years  to  carry,  Agatha  ? 


56  AGATHA. 

,*'' 

AGATHA. 

The  years  are  light,  dear  lady  :  'tis  rny  sins 
Are  heavier  than  I  would.     And  I  shall  go 
All  the  way  to  Einsiedeln  with  that  load : 
I  need  to  wrork  it  off. 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

What  sort  of  sins, 
Dear  Agatha  ?    I  think  they  must  be  small. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  but  they  may  be  greater  than  I  know  ; 

'Tis  but  dim  light  I  see  by.     So  I  try 

All  waj's  I  know  of  to  be  cleansed  and  pure : 

I  would  not  sink  where  evil  spirits  are. 

There's  perfect  goodness  somewhere  :  so  I  strive. 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

You  were  the  better  for  that  pilgrimage 
You  made  before  ?     The  shrine  is  beautiful ; 
And  then  you  saw  fresh  country  all  the  way. 


AGATHA. 

Yes,  that  is  true.     And  ever  since  that  time 
The  world  seems  greater,  and  the  Holy  Church 
More  wonderful.     The  blessed  pictures  all. 
The  heavenly  images  with  books  and  wings, 
Are  company  to  me  through  the  day  and  night. 
The  time  !  the  time  !     It  never  seemed  far  back, 
Only  to  father's  father  and  his  kin 
That  lived  before  him.     But  the  time  stretched  ont 
After  that  pilgrimage  :  I  seemed  to  see 
Far  back,  and  yet  I  knew  time  lay  behind, 
As  there  are  countries  lying  still  behind 
The  highest  mountains,  there  in  Switzerland 
Oh,  it  is  great  to  go  on  pilgrimage  ! 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

Perhaps  some  neighbors  will  be  pilgrims  too, 
And  }'ou  can  start  together  in  a  band. 

AGATHA. 

Not  from  these  hills  :  people  are  bus}^  here. 


58  AGATHA. 

The  beasts  want  tendance.     One  who  is  not  missed 

Can  go  and  pray  for  others  who  must  work. 

I  owe  it  to  all  neighbors,  young  and  old ; 

For  they  are  good  past  thinking,  —  lads  and  girls 

Given  to  mischief,  merry  naughtiness, 

Quiet  it,  as  the  hedgehogs  smooth  their  spines, 

For  fear  of  hurting  poor  old  Agatha. 

'Tis  pretty  :  why,  the  cherubs  in  the  sky 

Look  young  and  merry,  and  the  angels  play 

On  citherns,  lutes,  and  all  sweet  instruments. 

I  would  have  young  things  merry.     See  the  Lord  ! 

A  little  baby  playing  with  the  birds  ; 

And  how  the  Blessed  Mother  smiles  at  Mm. 

COUNTESS   LINDA. 

I  think  you  are  too  happy,  Agatha, 

To  care  for  heaven.     Earth' contents  you  well. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  nay,  I  shall  be  called,  and  I  shall  go 
Right  willingly.     I  shall  get  helpless,  blind, 


AGATHA.  59 

Be  like  an  old  stalk  to  be  plucked  away : 

The  garden  must  be  cleared  for  young  spring  plants. 

"Pis  home  be}Tond  the  grave,  the  most  are  there, 

All  those  we  pra}*  to,  all  the  Church's  lights,  — 

And  poor  old  souls  are  welcome  in  their  rags  : 

One  sees  it  by  the  pictures.     Good  Saint  Ann, 

The  Virgin's  mother,  she  is  ve^  old. 

And  had  her  troubles  with  her  husband  too. 

Poor  Kate  and  Nell  are  younger  far  than  I, 

But  they  will  have  this  roof  to  cover  them. 

I  shall  go  willingly  ;  and  willingness 

Makes  the  yoke  easy  and  the  burden  light. 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

When  you  go  southward  in  your  prilgrhnage, 

Come  to  see  me  in  Freiburg,  Agatha. 

Where  you  have  friends  3^011  should  not  go  to  inns. 

AGATHA. 

Yes,  I  will  gladly  come  to  see  }^ou,  lady. 
And  you  will  give  me  sweet  hay  for  a  bed, 


60  AGATHA. 

And  in  the  morning  I  shall  wake  betimes 
And  start  when  all  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

You  wear  your  smart  clothes  on  the  pilgrimage, 
Such  pretty  clothes  as  all  the  women  here 
Keep  by  them  for  their  best :  a  velvet  cap 
And  collar  golden-broidered  ?     They  look  well 
On  old  and  young  alike. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  I  have  none,  — 

Never  had  better  clothes  than  these  you  see. 
Good  clothes  are  pretty,  but  one  sees  them  best 
When  others  wear  them,  and  I  somehow  thought 
'Twas  not  worth  while.     I  had  so  many  things 
More  than  some  neighbors,  I  was  parti}'  shy 
Of  wearing  better  clothes  than  the}',  and  now 
I  am  so  old  and  custom  is  so  strong 
'Twould  hurt  me  sore  to  put  on  finer}'. 


AGATHA.  61 

COUNTESS    LINDA. 

Your  gray  hair  is  a  crowns,  dear  Agatha. 

Shake  hands  ;  good-by.     The  sun  is  going  down, 

And  I  must  see  the  glory  from  the  hill. 

I  staid  among  those  hills  ;  and  oft  heard  more 
Of  Agatha.     I  liked  to  hear  her  name. 
As  that  of  one  half  grandame  and  half  saint, 
Uttered  with  reverent  pla}Tfulness.     The  lads 
And  younger  men  all  called  her  mother,  aunt, 
Or  granny,  with  their  pet  diminutives, 
And  bade  their  lasses  and  their  brides  behave 
Right  well  to  one  who  surely  made  a  link 
'Twixt  faulty  folk  and  God  by  loving  both : 
Not  one  but  counted  service  done  by  her. 
Asking  no  pay  save  just  her  daily  bread. 
At  feasts  and  weddings,  when  they  passed  in  groups 
Along  the  vale,  and  the  good  country  wine, 
Being  vocal  in  them,  made  them  choir  along 
In  quaintly  mingled  mirth  and  piety, 
They  fain  must  jest  and  play  some  friendly  trick 


62  AGATHA. 

On  three  old  maids  ;  but  when  the  moment  came 
Always  they  bated  breath,  and  made  their  sport, 
Gentle  as  feather-stroke,  that  Agatha 
Might  like  the  waking  for  the  love  it  showed. 
Their  song  made  happy  music  'mid  the  hills, 
For  nature  tuned  their  race  to  harmony, 
And  poet  Hans,  the  tailor,  wrote  them  songs 
That  grew  from  out  their  life,  as  crocuses 
From  out  the  meadow's  moistness.     '  Twas  his 

song 

They  oft  sang,  wending  homeward  from  a  feast,  - 
The  song  I  give  you.     It  brings  in,  }TOU  see, 
Their  gentle  jesting  with  the  three  old  maids. 

Midnight  by  the  chapel  bell ! 

Homeward,  homeward  all,  farewell ! 

I  with  you,  and  you  with  me, 

Miles  are  short  with  company. 

Heart  of  Mary,  bless  the  way, 
Keep  us  all  by  night  and  day  ! 

Moon  and  stars  at  feast  with  night 
Now  have  drunk  their  fill  of  light. 


AGATHA.  63 

Home  they  hurry,  making  time 
Trot  apace,  like  merry  rhyme. 

Heart  of  Mary,  mystic  rose, 

Send  us  all  a  sweet  repose  ! 

Swiftly  through  the  wood  down  hill, 

Run  till  you  can  hear  the  mill. 

Toni's  ghost  is  wandering  now, 

Shaped  just  like  a  snow-white  cow. 
Heart  of  Mary,  morning  star, 
Ward  off  danger,  near  or  far  I 

Toni's  wagon  writh  its  load 

Fell  and  crushed  him  in  the  road 

'  Twixt  these  pine-trees.     Never  fear  ! 

Give  a  neighbor's  ghost  good  cheer. 

Holy  Babe,  our  God  and  Brother, 

Bind  us  fast  to  one  another  I 

Hark !  the  mill  is  at  its  work, 
Now  we  pass  beyond  the  murk 


64  AGATHA. 

To  the  hollow,  where  the  moon 

Makes  her  silvenT  afternoon. 

Good  Saint  Joseph,  faithful  spouse, 
Help  us  all  to  keep  our  voivs ! 

Here  the  three  old  maidens  dwell, 

Agatha  and  Kate  and  Nell ; 

See,  the  moon  shines  on  the  thatch, 

We  will  go  and  shake  the  latch. 
Heart  of  Mary,  cup  of  joy, 
Give  us  mirth  without  alloy ! 

Hush,  'tis  here,  no  noise,  sing  low, 
Rap  with  gentle  knuckles  —  so  ! 
Like  the  little  tapping  birds,- 
On  the  door  ;  then  sing  good  words. 
Meek  /Saint  Anna,  old  and  fair, 
Hallow  all  the  snoiv-white  hair  ! 

Little  maidens  old,  sweet  dreams  ! 
Sleep  one  sleep  till  morning  beams. 


AGATHA.  65 

Mothers  ye,  who  help  us  all, 

Quick  at  hand,  if  ill  befall. 
Holy  Gabriel,  lily -laden. 
Bless  the  aged  mother-maiden  ! 

Forward,  mount  the  broad  hillside 

Swift  as  soldiers  when  the}^  ride. 

See  the  two  towers  how  they  peep, 

Round-capped  giants,  o'er  the  steep. 
Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  sorrow, 
Keep  us  upright  through  the  morroiv  I 

Now  they  rise  quite  suddenly 
Like  a  man  from  bended  knee, 
Now  Saint  Margen  is  in  sight, 
Here  the  roads  branch  off  —  good-night ! 
Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  grace, 
Give  us  with  the  saints  a  place  I 
1868. 

6 


ARMGART. 

67 


ARMGART. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Salon  lit  with  lamps,  and  ornamented  with  green 
plants.  An  open  piano,  with  many  scattered  sheets 
of  music.  Bronze  busts  of  Beethoven  and  Gluck 
on  pillars  opposite  each  other.  A  small  table 
spread  ivith  supper.  To  FRAULEIN  WALPURGA, 
who  advances  with  a  slight  lameness  of  gait  fro/n 
an  adjoining  room,  enters  GRAF  DORNBERG  at  the 
opposite  door  in  a  travelling  dress. 

GRAF. 

Good-morning,  Friiulein ! 

WALPURGA. 

What,  so  soon  returned? 
I  feared  your  mission  kept  you  still  at  Prague. 


TO  ARMGART. 

GRAF. 

But  now  arrived  !     You  see  my  travelling  dress. 
I  hurried  from  the  panting,  roaring  steam 
Like  any  courier  of  embassy 
Who  hides  the  fiends  of  war  within  his  bag. 

WALPURGA. 

You  know  that  Armgart  sings  to-night  ? 

GRAF. 

Has  sung ! 

'Tis  close  on  half-past  nine.     The  Orpheus 
Lasts  not  so  long.     Her  spirits  —  were  they  high  ? 
Was  Leo  confident? 

WALPURGA. 

He  only  feared 

Some  tameness  at  beginning.     Let  the  house 
Once  ring,  he  said,  with  plaudits,  she  is  safe. 

GRAF. 
And  Armgart? 


ARMGAET.  71 

WALPURGA. 

She  was  stiller  than  her  wont. 
But  once,  at  some  such  trivial  word  of  mine, 
As  that  the  highest  prize  might  }-et  be  won 
By  her  who  took  the  second  —  she  was  roused. 
k'  For  me,"  she  said,  "  I  triumph  or  I  fail. 
I  never  strove  for  any  second  prize." 

GRAF. 

Poor  human-hearted  singing-bird  !     She  bears 

Caesar's  ambition  in  her  delicate  breast, 

And  nought  to  still  it  with  but  quivering  song ! 

WALPURGA. 

I  had  not  for  the  world  been  there  to-night : 
Unreasonable  dread  oft  chills  me  more 
Than  any  reasonable  hope  can  warm. 

GRAF. 

You  have  a  rare  affection  for  your  cousin  ; 
As  tender  as  a  sister's. 


72  AIIMGAET. 

WALPURGA. 

Nay,  I  fear 

My  love  is  little  more  than  what  I  felt 
For  happy  stories  when  I  was  a  child. 
She  fills  my  life  that  would  be  empt}'  else, 
And  lifts  my  nought  to  value  by  her  side. 

GRAF, 

She  is  reason  good  enough,  or  seems  to  be, 
Why  all  were  born  whose  being  ministers 
To  her  completeness.     Is  it  most  her  voice 
Subdues  us  ?  or  her  instinct  exquisite, 
Informing  each  old  strain  with  some  new  grace, 
Which  takes  our  sense  like  any  natural  good  ? 
Or  most  her  spiritual  energy, 
That  sweeps  us  in  the  current  of  her  song  ? 

WALPURGA. 

I  know  not.     Losing  either,  we  should  lose 
That  whole  we  call  our  Armgart.     For  herself, 


ARMGABT.  78 

She  often  wonders  what  her  life  had  been 
Without  that  voice  for  channel  to  her  soul. 
She  says,  it  must  have  leaped  through  all  her 

limbs  — 

Made  her  a  Maenad  —  made  her  snatch  a  brand, 
And  fire  some  forest,  that  her  rage  might  mount 
In  crashing  roaring  flames  through  half  a  land, 
Leaving  her  still  and  patient  for  a  while. 
"  Poor  wretch  !  "  she  says,  of  any  murderess  — 
"  The  world  was  cruel,  and  she  could  not  sing : 
I  carry  my  revenges  in  my  throat ; 
I  love  in  singing,  and  am  loved  again." 

GRAF. 

Mere  mood  !     I  cannot  yet  believe  it  more. 
Too  much  ambition  has  unwomaned  her  ; 
But  only  for  a  while.     Her  nature  hides 
One  half  its  treasures  by  its  very  wealth, 
Taxing  the  hours  to  show  it. 

WALPURGA. 

Hark !  she  comes. 


74  AEMGAHT. 

Enter  LEO  with  a  wreath  in  his  hand,  holding  the 
door  open  for  ARMGART,  who  wears  a  furred  man 
tle  and  hood.  She  is  followed  by  her  maid,  carry 
ing  an  armful  of  bouquets. 

LEO. 

Place  for  the  queen  of  song ! 

GRAF  (advancing  towards  ARMGART,  ivho  throws  off 
her  hood  and  mantle,  and  shows  a  star  of  bril 
liants  in  her  hair) . 

A  triumph,  then. 

You  will  not  be  a  niggard  of  your  joy, 
And  chide  the  eagerness  that  came  to  share  it. 

ARMGART. 

0  kind  !  you  hastened  your  return  for  me. 

1  would  you  had  been  there  to  hear  me  sing  ! 
Walpurga,  kiss  me  :  never  tremble  more 
Lest  Armgart's  wing  should  fail  her.     She  has 

found 


AEMGATIT.  75 

This  niglit  the  region  where  her  rapture  breathes  — 

Pouring  her  passion  on  the  air  made  live 

With  human  heart-throbs.     Tell  them,  Leo,  tell 

them 

How  I  outsang  your  hope,  and  made  }'ou  cry 
Because  Gluck  could  not  hear  me.     That  was  folly ! 
He  sang,  not  listened  :  eveiy  linked  note 
Was  his  immortal  pulse  that  stirred  in  mine, 
And  all  my  gladness  is  but  part  of  him. 
Give  me  the  wreath. 

[She  crowns  the  bust  of  GLUCK.. 

LEO  (sardonically) . 

Ay,  ay,  but  mark  you  this  : 
It  was  not  part  of  him  —  that  trill  }*ou  made 
In  spite  of  me  and  reason  ! 

ARMGART. 

You  were  wrong  — 

Dear  Leo,  you  were  wrong  :  the  house  was  held 
As  if  a  storm  were  listening  with  delight, 
And  hushed  its  thunder. 


76  ABMGAET. 

LEO. 

Will  you  ask  the  house 

To  teach  you  singing?    Quit  your  Orpheus  then, 
And  sing  in  farces  grown  to  operas, 
Where  all  the  prurience  of  the  full-fed  mob 
Is  tickled  with  melodic  impudence  : 
Jerk  forth  burlesque  bravuras,  square  your  arms 
Akimbo  with  a  tavern  wench's  grace, 
And  set  the  splendid  compass  of  your  voice 
To  l_yric  jigs.     Go  to  !  I  thought  you  meant 
To  be  an  artist  —  lift  your  audience 
To  see  }Tour  vision,  not  trick  forth  a  show 
To  please  the  grossest  taste  of  grossest  numbers. 

ARMGART  (taking  up  LEO'S  hand,  and  kissing  it) . 

Pardon,  good  Leo,  I  am  penitent. 

I  will  do  penance :  sing  a  hundred  trills 

Into  a  deep-dug  grave,  then  burying  them 

As  one  did  Midas'  secret,  rid  nryself 

Of  naughty  exultation.     Oh  I  trilled 

At  nature's  prompting,  like  the  nightingales. 

Go  scold  them,  dearest  Leo. 


ARMGAKT.  77 


LEO. 

I  stop  my  ears. 

•Nature  in  Gluck  inspiring  Orpheus, 
Has  done  with  nightingales.     Are  bird-beaks  lips? 

GRAF. 

Truce  to  rebukes  !    Tell  us  —  who  were  not  there  — 
The  double  drama  :  how  the  expectant  house 
Took  the  first  notes. 

WALPURGA  (turning  from  her  occupation  of  decking 
the  room  with  the  flowers) . 

Yes,  tell  us  all,  dear  Armgart. 
Did  you  feel  tremors?     Leo,  how  did  she  look? 
Was  there  a  cheer  to  greet  her  ? 

LEO. 

Not  a  sound. 

She  walked  like  Orpheus  in  his  solitude, 
And  seemed  to  see  nought  but  what  no  man  saw. 


78  ARMGART. 

'Twas  famous.     Not  the  Schroeder-Devrient 
Had  done  it  better.     But  your  blessed  public 
Had  never  any  judgment  in  cold  blood  — 
Thinks  all  perhaps  were  better  otherwise, 
Till  rapture  brings  a  reason. 

ARMGART   (scorn fully) . 

I  knew  that ! 

The  women  whispered,  u  Not  a  pretty  face  !  " 
The  men,  u  Well,  well,  a  goodly  length  of  limb  : 
She  bears  the  chiton."  —  It  were  all  the  same 
Were  I  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  my  stage 
The  opening  heavens  at  the  Judgment-day : 
Gossips  would  peep,  jog  elbows,  rate  the  price 
Of  such  a  woman  in  the  social  mart. 
What  were  the  drama  of  the  world  to  them, 
Unless  they  felt  the  hell-prong  ? 

LEO. 

Peace,  now,  peace ! 
I  hate  my  phrases  to  bo  smothered  o'er 
With  sauce  of  paraphrase,  my  sober  tune 


AKMGABT.  79 

Made  bass  to  rambling  trebles,  showering  down 
In  endless  demi-semi-quavers. 

ARMGART  (taking  a  bon-bon  from  the  table,  uplifting 
it  before  putting  it  into  her  mouth,  and  turning 
away) . 

Mum ! 

GRAF. 

Yes,  tell  as  all  the  glory,  leave  the  blame. 

WALPtJRGA. 

You  first,  dear  Leo  —  what  you  saw  and  heard  ; 
Then  Armgart  —  she  must  tell  us  what  she  felt. 

LEO. 

Well !     The  first  notes  came  clearly,  firmly  forth. 

And  I  was  easy,  for  behind  those  rills 

I  knew  there  was  a  fountain.     I  could  see     . 

The  house  was  breathing  gently,  heads  were  still ; 

Parrot  opinion  was  struck  meekly  mute, 

And  human  hearts  were  swelling.     Armgart  stood 


80  ABMGAET. 

As  if  she  had  been  new-created  there, 
And  found  her  voice  which  found  a  melody. 
The  minx  !     Gluck  had  not  written,  nor  I  taught : 
Orpheus  was  Armgart,  Armgart  Orpheus. 
Well,  well,  all  through  the  scena  I  could  feel 
The  silence  tremble  now,  now  poise  itself 
With  added  weight  of  feeling,  till  at  last 
Delight  o'er-toppled  it.     The  final  note 
Had  happy  drowning  in  the  unloosed  roar 
That  surged  and  ebbed  and  ever  surged  again, 
Till  expectation  kept  it  pent  awhile 
Ere  Orpheus  returned.     Pfui !     He  was  changed  : 
My  demi-god  was  pale,  had  downcast  eyes 
That  quivered  like  a  bride's  who  fain  would  send 
Backward  the  rising  tear. 

ARMGART  (advancing,  but  then  turning  aivay,  as  if 
to  check  her  speech) . 

I  was  a  bride, 
As  nuns  are  at  their  spousals. 

LEO. 

Ay,  my  lady, 


ARMGART.  81 

That  moment  will  not  come  again  :  applause 
May  come  and  plenty  ;  but  the  first,  first  draught ! 

[/Snaps  Ms  fingers. 

Music  has  sounds  for  it  —  I  know  no  words. 
I  felt  it  once  myself  when  they  performed 
My  overture  to  Sintram.     Well !  'tis  strange, 
We  know  not  pain  from  pleasure  in  such  joy. 

ARMGART  (turning  quickly) . 
Oh,  pleasure  has  cramped  dwelling  in  our  souls, 
And  when  full  Being  comes  must  call  on  pain 
To  lend  it  liberal  space. 

WALPURGA. 

I  hope  the  house 

Kept  a  reserve  of  plaudits  :  I  am  jealous 
Lest  they  had  dulled  themselves  for  coming  good 
That  should  have  seemed  the  better  and  the  best. 

LEO. 

No,  'twas  a  revel  where  they  had  but  quaffed 
Their  opening  cup.     I  thank  the  artist's  star, 


82  AEMGART. 

His  audience  keeps  not  sober  :  once  afire, 

They  flame  towards  climax,  though  his  merit  hold 

But  fairly  even. 

ARMGART  (her  hand  on  LEO'S  arm) . 

Now,  now,  confess  the  truth : 
I  sang  still  better  to  the  very  end  — 
All  save  the  trill ;  I  give  that  up  to  }Tou, 
To  bite  and  growl  at.     Why,  you  said  3~ourself, 
Each  time  I  sang,  it  seemed  new  doors  were  open 
That  you  might  hear  heaven  clearer. 

LEO  (shaking  his  finger). 

I  was  raving. 

ARMGART. 

I  am  not  glad  with  that  mean  vanity 
Which  knows  no  good  beyond  its  appetite 
Full  feasting  upon  praise  !     I  am  only  glad, 
Being  praised  for  what  I  know  is  worth  the  praise  ; 
Glad  of  the  proof  that  I  myself  have  part 


AEMGAHT.  83 

In  what  I  worship  !     At  the  last  applause  — 
Seeming  a  roar  of  tropic  winds  that  tossed 
The  handkerchiefs  and  num}*-colored  flowers, 
Falling  like  shattered  rainbows  all  around  — 
Think  you  I  felt  myself  uprima  donna? 
No,  but  a  happy  spiritual  star 
Such  as  old  Dante  saw,  wrought  in  a  rose 
Of  light  in  Paradise,  whose  only  self 
Was  consciousness  of  glory  wide-diffused, 
Music,  life,  power  —  I  moving  in  the  midst 
With  a  sublime  necessity  of  good. 

LEO  (with  a  shrug). 

I  thought  it  was  a  prima  donna  came 
Within  the  side-scenes  ;  ay,  and  she  was  proud 
To  find  the  bouquet  from  the  royal  box 
Enclosed  a  jewel-case,  and  proud  to  wear 
A  star  of  brilliants,  quite  an  earthly  star, 
Valued  by  thalers.     Come,  my  lady,  own 
Ambition  has  five  senses,  and  a  self 
That  gives  it  good  warm  lodging  when  it  sinks 
Plump  down  from  ecstasy. 


84  ARMGART. 

ARMGART. 

Own  it?  why  not? 

Am  I  a  sage  whose  words  must  fall  like  seed 
Silently  buried  toward  a  far-off  spring  ? 
I  sing  to  living  men,  and  my  effect 
Is  like  the  summer's  sun,  that  ripens  corn 
Or  now  or  never.     If  the  world  brings  me  gifts, 
Gold,  incense,  myrrh  —  'twill  be  the  needful  sign 
That  I  have  stirred  it  as  the  high  year  stirs 
Before  I  sink  to  winter. 


GRAF. 

Ecstasies 

Are  short  —  most  happily  !     We  should  but  lose 
Were  Armgart  borne  too  commonly  and  long 
Out  of  the  self  that  charms  us.     Could  I  choose, 
She  were  less  apt  to  soar  bej^ond  the  reach 
Of  woman's  foibles,  innocent  vanities, 
Fondness  for  trifles  like  that  pretty  star 
Twinkling  beside  her  cloud  of  ebon  hair. 


ARMGART.  85 

ARMGART  (taking  out  the  gem,  and  looking  at  it). 

This  little  star !     I  would  it  were  the  seed 

Of  a  whole  Milky  Way,  if  such  bright  shimmer 

Were  the  sole  speech  men  told  their  rapture  with 

At  Armgart's  music.     Shall  I  turn  aside 

From  splendors  which  flash  out  the  glow  I  make, 

And  live  to  make,  in  all  the  chosen  breasts 

Of  half  a  Continent?     No,  may  it  come, 

That  splendor  !     May  the  day  be  near  when  men 

Think  much  to  let  my  horses  draw  me  home, 

And  new  lands  welcome  me  upon  their  beach, 

Loving  me  for  my  fame.     That  is  the  truth 

Of  what  I  wish,  nay,  yearn  for.     -Shall  I  lie? 

Pretend  to  seek  obscurity  —  to  sing 

In  hope  of  disregard  ?     A  vile  pretence  ! 

And  blasphemy  besides.     For  what  is  fame 

But  the  benignant  strength  of  One,  transformed 

To  joy  of  Many?     Tributes,  plaudits  come 

As  necessary  breathing  of  such  joy  ; 

And  *  may  they  come  to  me  ! 


86  AKMGART. 

GRAF. 

The  auguries 

Point  clearly  that  way.     Is  it  no  offence 
To  wish  the  eagle's  wing  may  find  repose, 
As  feebler  wings  do,  in  a  quiet  nest? 
Or  has  the  taste  of  fame  already  turned 
The  Woman  to  a  Muse  .  .  . 

LEO  (going  to  the  table) . 

Who  needs  no  supper. 
I  am  her  priest,  ready  to  eat  her  share 
Of  good  Walpurga's  offerings. 

WALPURGA. 

Anngart,  come. 
Graf,  will  you  come  ? 

GRAF. 

Thanks,  I  play  truant  here, 
And  must  retrieve  my  self-indulged  delay. 


ARMGART.  87 


But  will  the  Muse  receive  a  votary 
At  any  hour  to-morrow  ? 


ARMGART. 


Any  hour 
After  rehearsal,  ftfter  twelve  at  noon. 


SCENE  II. 

The  same  Salon,  morning.  ARMGART  seated,  in  her 
bonnet  and  walking-dress.  The  GRAF  standing 
near  her  against  the  piano. 

GRAF. 

Armgart,  to  many  minds  the  first  success 
Is  reason  for  desisting.     I  have  known 
A  man  so  versatile,  he  tried  all  arts, 
But  when  in  each  by 'turns  he  had  achieved 
Just  so  much  mastery  as  made  men  say, 


,  ARMGART. 

"  He  could  be  king  here  if  he  would,"  he  threw 
The  lauded  skill  aside.     He  hates,  said  one. 
The  level  of  achieved  pre-eminence, 
He  must  be  conquering  still ;  but  others  said  — 

ARMGART. 

The  truth,  I  hope  :  he  had  a  meagre  soul, 
Holding  no  depth  where  love  could  root  itself. 
' '  Could  if  he  would  ?  "     True  greatness  ever  wills 
It  lives  in  wholeness  if  it  lire  at  all, 
And  all  its  strength  is  knit  with  constancy. 

GRAF. 

He  used  to  say  himself  he  was  too  sane 

To  give  his  life  away  for  excellence 

Which  yet  must  stand,  an  ivory  statuette 

Wrought  to  perfection  through  long  lonely  years, 

Huddled  in  the  mart  of  mediocrities. 

He  said,  the  very  finest  doing  wins 

The  admiring  only  ;  but  to  leave  undone, 

Promise  and  not  fulfil,  like  buried  youth, 


AEMGARTAr  89 


Wins  all  the  envious,  makes  them 

As  that  fair  Absent,  blameless  Possible, 

Which  could  alone  impassion  them  ;  and  thus, 

Serene  negation  has  free  gift  of  all, 

Panting  achievement  struggles,  is  denied, 

Or  wins  to  lose  again.     What  say  you,  Armgart? 

Truth  has  rough  flavors  if  we  bite  it  through  ; 

I  think  this  sarcasm  came  from  out  its  core 

Of  bitter  irony. 

ARMGART. 

It  is  the  truth 

Mean  souls  select  to  feed  upon.     What  then  ? 
Their  meanness  is  a  truth,  which  I  will  spurn. 
The  praise  I  seek  lives  not  in  envious  breath, 
Using  my  name  to  blight  another's  deed. 
I  sing  for  love  of  song  and  that  renown 
Which  is  the  spreading  act,  the  world  wide  share, 
Of  good  that  I  was  born  with.     Had  I  failed  — 
Well,  that  had  been  a  truth  most  pitiable. 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  life  would  be 
With  high  hope  shrunk  to  endurance,  stunted  aims 


90  AKMGAftT. 

Like  broken  lances  ground  to  eating-knives, 
A  self  sunk  clown  to  look  with  level  eyes 
At  low  achicvemennt,  doomed  from  day  to  day 
To  distaste  of  its  consciousness.     But  I  — 

GRAF. 

Have  won,  not  lost,  in  your  decisive  throw. 

And  I  too  glory  in  this  issue  ;  3'et 

The  public  verdict  has  no  potency 

To  sway  my  judgment  of  what  Armgart  is  : 

My  pure  delight  in  her  would  bo  but  sullied, 

If  it  o'erflowed  with  mixture  of  men's  praise. 

And  had  she  failed,  I  should  have  said,  "  The  pearl 

Remains  a  pearl  for  me,  reflects  the  light 

With  the  same  fitness  that  first  charmed  my  gaze  — 

Is  worth  as  fine  a  setting  now  as  then." 

ARMGART  (rising). 

Oh  you  are  good  !     But  why  will  you  rehearse 
The  talk  of  cynics,  who  with  insect  eyes 
Explore  the  secrets  of  the  rubbish-heap  ? 
I  hate  your  epigrams  and  pointed  saws 


AKMGAKT.  91 

Whose  narrow  truth  is  but  broad  falsity. 
Confess  your  friend  was  shallow. 

GRAF. 

I  confess 

Life  is  not  rounded  in  an  epigram, 
And  saying  aught,  we  leave  a  world  unsaid. 
I  quoted,  merely  to  shape  forth  my  thought 
That  high  success  has  terrors  when  achieved  — 
Like  preternatural  spouses  whose  dire  love 
Hangs  perilous  on  slight  observances  : 
Whence  it  were  possible  that  Armgart  crowned 
Might  turn  and  listen  to  a  pleading  voice, 
Though  Armgart  striving  in  the  race  was  deaf. 
You  said  }-ou  dared  not  think  what  life  had  been 
Without  the  stamp  of  eminence  ;  have  you  thought 
How  }'ou  will  bear  the  poise  of  eminence 
With  dread  of  sliding  ?     Paint  the  future  out 
As  an  unchecked  and  glorious  career, 
'Twill  grow  more  strenuous  b}T  the  very  love 
You  bear  to  excellence,  the  veiy  fate 
Of  human  powers,  which  tread  at  every  step 
On  possible  verges. 


92  AEMGAET. 

ARMGART. 

I  accept  the  peril. 

I  choose  to  walk  high  with  sublimer  dread 
Rather  than  crawl  in  safety.     And,  besides, 
I  am  an  artist  as  you  are  a  noble : 
I  ought  to  bear  the  burthen  of  my  rank. 

GRAF. 

Such  parallels,  dear  Armgart,  are  but  snares 
To  catch  the  mind  with  seeming  argument  — 
Small  baits  of  likeness  'mid  disparity. 
Men  rise  the  higher  as  their  task  is  high, 
The  task  being  well  achieved.     A  woman's  rank 
Lies  in  the  fulness  of  her  womanhood  : 
Therein  alone  she  is  royal. 

ARMGART. 

Yes,  I  know 

The  oft-taught  Gospel :  "  Woman,  thy  desire 
Shall  be  that  all  superlatives  on  earth 
Belong  to  men,  save  the  one  highest  kind  — 


ARMGART.  93 

To  be  a  mother.     Thou  shalt  not  desire 
To  do  aught  best  save  pure  subservience  : 
Nature  has  willed  it  so  !  "     O  blessed  Nature  ! 
Let  her  be  arbitress  ;  she  gave  me  voice 
Such  as  she  only  gives  a  woman  child, 
Best  of  its  kind,  gave  me  ambition  too, 
That  sense  transcendent  which  can  taste  the  joy 
Of  swaying  multitudes,  of  being  adored 
For  such  achievement,  needed  excellence, 
As  man's  best  art  must  w^ait  for,  or  be  dumb. 
Men  did  not  say,  when  I  had  sung  last  night, 
"•  'Twas  good,  nay,  wonderful,  considering 
She  is  a  woman  "  —  and  then  turn  to  add, 
"  Tenor  or  baritone  had  sung  her  songs 
Better,  of  course  :  she's  but  a  woman  spoiled." 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Graf,  you  said  it. 

GRAF. 

No! 

How  should  I  say  it,  Armgart?     I  who  own 
The  magic  of  your  nature-given  art    ' 
As  sweetest  effluence  of  your  womanhood, 


94  AKMGAET. 

Which,  being  to  my  choice  the  best,  must  find 
The  best  of  utterance.     But  this  I  say  : 
Your  fervid  youth  baguiles  you  ;  you  mistake 
A  strain  of  lyric  passion  for  a  life 
Which  in  the  spending  is  a  chronicle 
With  ugly  pages.     Trust  me,  Armgart,  trust  me  ; 
Ambition  exquisite  as  yours  which  soars 
Toward  something  quintessential  you  call  fame, 
Is  not  robust  enough  for  this  gross  world 
Whose  fame  is  dense  with  false  and  foolish  breath. 
Ardor,  a-twin  with  nice  refining  thought, 
Prepares  a  double  pain.     Pain  had  been  saved, 
Nay,  purer  gloiy  reached,  had  you  been  throned 
As  woman  only,  holding  all  }T>ur  art 
As  attribute  to  that  dear  sovereignty  — 
Concentring  }*our  power  in  home  delights 
Which  penetrate  and  purify  the  world. 

ARMGART. 

What,  leave  the  opera  with  my  part  ill -sung 
While  I  was  warbling  in  a  drawing-room? 
Sing  in  the  chimney-corner  to  inspire 


ARMGAKT.  95 

My  husband  reading  news  ?     Let  the  world  hear 

My  music  only  in  his  morning  speech 

Less  stammering  than  most  honorable  men's  ? 

No  !  tell  me  that  my  song  is  poor,  my  art 

The  piteous  feat  of  weakness  aping  strength — 

That  were  fit  proem  to  jour  argument. 

Till  then,  I  am  an  artist  by  my  birth  — 

By  the  same  warrant  that  I  am  a  woman : 

Nay,  in  the  added  rarer  gift  I  see 

Supreme  vocation  :•  if  a  conflict  comes, 

Perish  —  no,  not  the  woman,  but  the  joys 

Which  men  make  narrow  by  their  narrowness. 

Oh  I  am  happy  !     The  great  masters  write 

For  women's  voices,  and  great  Music  wants  me  ! 

I  need  not  crush  myself  within  a  mould 

Of  theory  called  Nature  :  I  have  room 

To  breathe  and  grow  imstunted. 

GRAF. 

Armgart,  hear  me. 

I  meant  not  that  our  talk  should  hurry  on 
To  such  collision.     Foresight  of  the  ills 


96  ARMGART. 

Thick  shadowing  your  path,  drew  on  my  speech 

Beyond  intention.     True,  I  canae  to  ask 

A  great  renunciation,  but  not  this 

Towards  which  my  words  at  first  perversel}T  strayed, 

As  if  in  memory  of  their  earlier  suit, 

Forgetful 

Armgart,  do  you  remember  too?  the  suit 
Had  but  postponement,  was  not  quite  disdained  — 
Was  told  to  wait  and  learn  —  what  it  has  learned  — 
A  more  submissive  speech. 

0 

ARMGART  (with  some  agitation) . 

Then  it  forgot 

Its  lesson  cruelly.     As  I  remember, 
'Twas  not  to  speak  save  to  the  artist  crowned, 
Nor  speak  to  her  of  casting  off  her  crown. 

GRAF. 

Nor  will  it,  Armgart.     I  come  not  to  seek 

Any  renunciation  save  the  wife's, 

Which  turns  away  from  other  possible  love 


ABMGAKT.  97 

Future  and  worthier  to  take  his  love 
Who  asks  the  name  of  husband.     He  who  sought 
Armgart  obscure,  and  heard  her  answer,  "  Wait"  — 
May  come  without  suspicion  now  to  seek 
Armgart  applauded. 

ARMGART  (turning  towards  him) . 

Yes,  without  suspicion 

Of  augUt  save  what  consists  with  faithfulness 
In  all  expressed  intent.     Forgive  me,  Graf — 
I  am  ungrateful  to  no  soul  that  loves  me  — 
To  you  most  grateful.     Yet  the  best  intent 
Grasps  but  a  living  present  which  may  grow 
Like  any  unfledged  bird.     You  are  a  noble, 
And  have  a  high  career ;  just  now  you  said 
'Twas  higher  far  than  aught  a  woman  seeks 
Beyond  mere  womanhood.     You  claim  to  be 
More  than  a  husband,  but  could  not  rejoice 
That  I  were  more  than  wife.     What  follows,  then? 
You  choosing  me  with  such  persistency 
As  is  but  stretched-out  rashness,  soon  must  find 
Our  marriage  asks  concessions,  asks  resolve 
7 


98  ARMGART. 

To  share  renunciation  or  demand  it. 

Either  we  both  renounce  a  mutual  ease, 

As  in  a  nation's  need  both  man  and  wife 

Do  public  services,  or  one  of  us 

Must  yield  that  something  else  for  which  each  lives 

Besides  the  other.     Men  are  reasoners  : 

That  premise  of  superior  claims  perforce 

Urges  conclusion  —  "  Armgart,  it  is  you." 


GRAF. 

But  if  I  say  I  have  considered  this 

With  strict  prevision,  counted  all  the  cost 

Which  that  great  good  of  loving  you  demands  — 

Questioned  my  stores  of  patience,  half-resolved 

To  live  resigned  without  a  bliss  whose  threat 

Touched  3^011  as  well  as  me  —  and  finally, 

With  impetus  of  undivided  will 

Returned  to  say,  ' '  You  shall  be  free  as  now ; 

Only  accept  the  refuge,  shelter,  guard, 

My  love  will  give  }'our  freedom  "  —  then  your  words 

Are  hard  accusal. 


ARMGART. 
ARMGART. 

Well,  I  accuse  myself. 
My  love  would  be  accomplice  of  your  will. 

GRAF. 

Again  —  my  will  ? 

ARMGART. 

Oh  your  unspoken  will. 
Your  silent  tolerance  would  torture  me,' 
And  on  that  rack  I  should  deny  the  good 
I  yet  believed  in. 

GRAF. 

Then  I  am  the  man 
Whom  you  would  love  ? 

ARMGART. 

Whom  I  refuse  to  love  ! 
No,  I  will  live  alone,  and  pour  my  pain 
With  passion  into  music,  where  it  turns 


100  AKMGART. 

To  what  is  best  within  my  better  self. 

1  will  not  take  for  husband  one  who  deems 

The  thing  my  soul  acknowledges  as  good  — 

The  thing  I  hold  worth  striving,  suffering  for. 

To  be  a  thing  dispensed  with  easily, 

Or  else  the  idol  of  a  mind  infirm. 

GRAF. 

Armgart,  3-011  are  ungenerous  ;  you  strain 
My  thought  be}~ond  its  mark.     Our  difference 
Lies  not  so  deep  as  love  —  as  union 
Through  a  mysterious  fitness  that  transcends 
Formal  agreement. 

ARMGART. 

It  lies  deep  enough 
To  chafe  the  union.     If  many  a  man 
Refrains,  degraded,  from  the  utmost  right, 
Because  the  pleadings  of  his  wife's  small  fears 
Are  little  serpents  biting  at  his  heel, — 
How  shall  a  woman  keep  her  steadfastness 


ARMGAKT.  101 

Beneath  a  frost  within  her  husband's  eyes 
Where  coldness  scorches  ?     Graf,  it  is  your  sorrow 
That  you  love  Armgart.     Nay,  it  is  her  sorrow 
That  she  may  not  love  you. 


GRAF. 

* 

Woman,  it  seems, 
Has  enviable  power  to  love  or  not 
According  to  her  will. 


ARMGART. 

She  has  the  will — 

I  have  —  who  am  one  woman  —  not  to  take 
Disloyal  pledges  that  divide  her  will. 
The  man  who  marries  me  must  wed  my  Art  — 
Honor  and  cherish  it,  not  tolerate. 

GRAF. 

The  man  is  yet  to  come  whose  theory 

Will  weigh  as  nought  with  you  against  his  love. 


102  AKMGART. 

ARMGART. 

Whose  theory  will  plead  beside  his  love. 

GRAF. 

Himself  a  singer,  then  ?  who  knows  no  life 
Out  of  the  opera  books,  where  tenor  parts 
Are  found  to  suit  him  ? 

ARMGART. 

You  are  bitter,  Graf. 

Forgive  me  ;  seek  the  woman  you  deserve, 
All  grace,  all  goodness,  who  has  not  yet  found 
A  meaning  in  her  life,  nor  any  end 
Beyond  fulfilling  yours.     The  type  abounds. 

GRAF. 
And  happily,  for  the  world. 

ARMGART. 

Yes,  happily. 


ARMGART.  103 


Let  it  excuse  me  that  my  kind  is  rare : 
Commonness  is  its  own  security. 


GRAF. 


Armgart,  I  would  with  all  my  soul  I  knew 
The  man  so  rare  that  he  could  make  j'our  life 
As  woman  sweet  to  you,  as  artist  safe. 

ARMGART. 

•Oh  I  can  live  unmated,  but  not  live 
Without  the  bliss  of  singing  to  the  world, 
And  feeling  all  my  world  respond  to  me. 

GRAF. 
May  it  be  lasting.     Then,  we  two  must  part? 

ARMGART. 

I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  all.     Farewell ! 


104  AEMGABT. 


SCENE  III. —A  YEAR  LATER. 

The  same  Salon.  WALPURGA  is  standing  looking 
totvards  the  window  with  an  air  of  uneasiness. 
DOCTOR  GRAHN. 

DOCTOR. 
Where  is  my  patient,  Fraulein? 

WALPURGA. 

Fled!  escaped! 
Gone  to  rehearsal.     Is  it  dangerous? 

DOCTOR. 

No,  no  ;  her  throat  is  cured.     I  only  came 
To  hear  her  try  her  voice.     Had  she  yet  sung? 

WALPURGA. 

No  :  she  had  meant  to  wait  for  you.     She  said, 
"  The  Doctor  has  a  right  to  rny  first  song." 
Her  gratitude  was  full  of  little  plans, 


AKMGABT.  105 

But  all  were  swept  away  like  gathered  flowers 
By  sudden  storm.     She  saw  this  opera  bill  — 
It  was  a  wasp  to  sting  her :  she  turned  pale, 
Snatched  up  her  hat  and  mufflers,  said  in  haste, 
"  I  go  to  Leo  —  to  rehearsal  —  none 
Shall  sing  Fidelio  to-night  but  me  !  " 
Then  rushed  down  stairs. 

DOCTOR  (looking  at  his  watch) . 

And  this,  not  long  ago? 

WALPURGA. 

Barely  an  hour. 

DOCTOR. 

I  will  come  again 
Returning  from  Charlottenburg  at  one. 

WALPURGA . 

Doctor,  I  feel  a  strange  presentiment. 
Are  3'ou  quite  easy  ? 


106  ARMGAKT. 

DOCTOR. 

She  can  take  no  harm. 

'Twas  time  for  her  to  sing :  her  throat  is  well. 
It  was  a  fierce  attack,  and  dangerous  ; 
I  had  to  nse  strong  remedies,  but  —  well ! 
At  one,  dear  Fraulein,  we  shall  meet  again. 


SCENE  I Y.  —  Two  HOURS  LATER. 

WALPURGA  starts  up,  looking  toivards  the  door. 
ARMGART  enters,  followed  by  LEO.  She  throws 
herself  on  a  chair  which  stands  with  its  back  towards 
the  door,  speechless,  not  seeming  to  see  any  thing. 
WALPURGA  casts  a  questioning ,  terrified  look  at  LEO. 
He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  lifts  up  his  hands  be- 
.hind  ARMGART,  who  sits  like  a  helpless  image,  while 
WALPURGA  takes  off  her  hat  and  mantle. 


AEMGAET.  107 

WALPURGA. 

Armgart,  dear  Armgart    (kneeling,  and  taking  her 

hands),  only  speak  to  me, 

Your  poor  Walpurga.     Oh  your  hands  are  cold  ! 
Clasp  mine,  and  warm  them  !  I  will  kiss  them  warm. 

(ARMGART  looks  at  her  an  instant,  then  draws 
away  her  hands,  and,  turning  aside,  buries  her 
face  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  WALPURGA 
rising,  and  standing  near.) 

(DOCTOR  GRAHN  enters.) 

DOCTOR. 

News  !  stirring  news  to-day  !  wonders  come  thick. 
ARMGART  (starting  up  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice, 

and  speaking  vehemently) . 

Yes,  thick,  thick,  thick !  and  you  have  murdered  it  I 
Murdered  my  voice  —  poisoned  the  soul  in  me, 
And  kept  me  living. 
You  never  told  me  that  your  cruel  cures 
"Were  clogging  films  —  a  mouldy,  dead'ning  blight  — 


108  ARMGART. 

A  lava-mud  to  crust  and  bury  me, 
Yet  hold  me  living  in  a  deep,  deep  tomb, 
Crying  unheard  forever  !     Oh  your  cures 
Are  devils'  triumphs  :  you  can  rob,  maim,  slay, 
And  keep  a  hell  on  the  other  side  your  cure 
Where  you  can  see  your  victim  quivering 
Between  the  teeth  of  torture  —  see  a  soul 
Made  keen  by  loss  —  all  anguish  with  a  good 
Once  known  and  gone  !     (  Turns  and  sinks  back  on 
her  chair.) 

O  misery,  misery ! 

You  might  have  killed  me,  might  have  let  me  sleep 
After  my  happy  daj1",  and  wake  —  not  here  ! 
In  some  new  unremembered  world,  —  not  here, 
Where  all  is  faded,  flat  —  a  feast  broke  off — 
Banners  all  meaningless  —  exulting  words 
Dull,  dull —  a  drum  that  lingers  in  the  air 
Beating  to  melody  which  no  man  hears. 

DOCTOR  (after  a  moment's  silence.) 
A  sudden  check  has  shaken  you,  poor  child  ! 
All  things  seem  livid,  tottering  to  your  sense, 


ARMGART.  109 

From  inward  tumult.     Stricken  by  a  threat 
You  see  your  terrors  only.     Tell  me,  Leo  : 
'Tis  not  such  utter  loss.    (LEO,  with  a  shrug,   goes 
quietly  out.) 

The  freshest  bloom 
Merely,  has  left  the  fruit ;  the  fruit  itself  .  .  . 

ARMGART. 

Is  ruined,  withered,  is  a  thing  to  hide 

Away  from  scorn  or  pity.     Oh  you  stand 

And  look  compassionate  now,  but  when  Death  came 

With  mercy  in  his  hands,  you  hindered  him. 

I  did  not  choose  to  live  and  have  your  pity. 

You  never  told  me,  never  gave  me  choice 

To  die  a  singer,  lightning-struck,  unmaimed, 

Or  live  what  you  would  make  me  with  your  cures  — 

A  self  accursed  with  consciousness  of  change, 

A  mind  that  lives  in  nought  but  members  lopped, 

A  power  turned  to  pain  —  as  meaningless 

As  letters  fallen  asunder  that  once  made 

A  hymn  of  rapture.     Oh,  I  had  meaning  once, 


110  ABMGABT. 

Like  day  and  sweetest  air.     What  am  I  now  ? 
The  millionth  woman  in  superfluous  herds. 
Why  should  I  be,  do,  think?     'Tis  thistle-seed, 
That  grows  and  grows  to  feed  the  rubbish-heap. 
Leave  me  alone ! 

DOCTOR. 

Well,  I  will  come  again  ; 

Send  for  me  when  you  will,  though  but  to  rate  me. 
That  is  medicinal  —  a  letting  blood. 

ARMGART. 

Oh  there  is  one  physician,  only  one, 

Who  cures  and  never  spoils.     Him  I  shall  send  for ; 

He  comes  readily. 

DOCTOR  (to  WALPURGA). 
One  word,  dear  Fraulein. 


ARMGART.  Ill 

SCENE  V. 

ARMGAKT,  WALPURGA. 
ARMGART. 

Walpurga,  have  you  walked  this  morning  ? 


WALPURGA. 

No. 


ARMGART. 

Go,  then,  and  walk  ;  I  wish  to  be  alone. 

WALPURGA. 

I  will  not  leave  you. 

ARMGART. 

Will  not,  at  my  wish  ? 

WALPURGA. 

Will  not,  because  }7ou  wish  it.     Say  no  more, 
But  take  this  draught. 


112  ARMGART. 

ARMGART. 

The  Doctor  gave  it  you  ? 
It  is  an  anodyne.     Put  it  awa}T. 
He  cured  me  of  my  voice,  and  now  he  wants 
To  cure  me  of  my  vision  and  resolve  — 
Drug  me  to  sleep  that  I  may  wake  again 
Without  a  purpose,  abject  as  the  rest 
To  bear  the  yoke  of  life.     He  shall  not  cheat  me 
Of  that  fpesh  strength  which  anguish  gives  the  soul, 
The  inspiration  of  revolt,  ere  rage 
Slackens  to  faltering.     Now  I  see  the  truth. 

WALPURGA  (setting  down  the  glass) . 

Then  you  must  see  a  future  in  your  reach, 
With  happiness  enough  to  make  a  dower 
For  two  of  modest  claims. 

ARMGART. 

Oh  j'ou  intone 

That  chant  of  consolation  wherewith  ease 
Makes  itself  easier  in  the  sight  of  pain. 


ARMGART.  113 

WALPURGA. 

No ;  I  would  not  console  }TOU,  but  rebuke. 

ARMGART. 

That  is  more  bearable.     Forgive  me,  dear. 
Say  what  you  will.     But  now  I  want  to  write. 

(She  rises,  and  moves  towards  a  table) . 

WALPURGA. 

I  say  then,  you  are  simply  fevered,  mad  ; 
You  cry  aloud  at  horrors  that  would  vanish 
If  you  would  change  the  light,  throw  into  shade 
The  loss  you  aggrandize,  and  let  day  fall 
On  good  remaining,  nay  on  good  refused 
Which  may  be  gain  now.     Did  you  not  reject 
A  woman's  lot  more  brilliant,  as  some  held, 
Than  any  singer's  ?     It  may  still  be  yours. 
Graf  Dornberg  loved  you  well. 

ARMGART. 

Not  me,  not  me. 


114  AEMGAET. 

He  loved  one  well  who  was  like  me  in  all 
Save  in  a  voice  which  made  that  All  unlike 
As  diamond  is  to  charcoal.     Oh,  a  man's  love  ! 
Think  you  he  loves  a  woman's  inner  self 
Aching  with  loss  of  loveliness  ?  —  as  mothers 
Cleave  to  the  palpitating  pain  that  dwells 
Within  their  rnisformed  offspring  ? 

WALPURGA. 

But  the  Graf 

Chose  you  as  simple  Armgart  —  had  preferred 
That  you  should  never  seek  for  any  fame 
But  such  as  matrons  have  who  rear  great  sons. 
And  therefore  you  rejected  him  ;  but  now  — 

ARMGART. 

Ay,  now  —  now  he  would  see  me  as  I  am, 

(she  takes  up  a  hand-mirror) , 
Russet  and  songless  as  a  missel-thrush. 
An  ordinary  girl  —  a  plain  brown  girl, 
Who,  if  some  meaning  flash  from  out  her  words, 


AEMGAKT.  115 

Shocks  as  a  disproportioned  thing  —  a  Will 
That,  like  an  arm  astretch  and  broken  off, 
Has  nought  to  hurl  —  the  torso  of  a  soul. 
I  sang  him  into  love  of  me  :  my  song 
Was  consecration,  lifted  me  apart 
From  the  crowd  chiselled  like  me,  sister  forms, 
But  empty  of  divineness.     Nay,  my  charm 
Was  half  that  I  could  win  fame,  }'et  renounce ! 
A  wife  with  glory  possible  absorbed 
Into  her  husband's  actual. 

WALPURGA. 

For  shame  ! 

Armgart,  you  slander  him.     What  would  you  say 
If  now  he  came  to  you  and  asked  again 
That  you  would  be  his  wife  ? 

ARMGART. 

No,  and  thrice  no ! 

It  wrould  be  pitying  constancy,  ,not  love, 
That  brought  him  to  me  now.     I  will  not  be 
A  pensioner  in  marriage.     Sacraments 


116  AEMGART. 

Are  not  to  feed  the  paupers  of  the  world. 
If  he  were  generous  —  I  am  generous  too. 

WALPURGA. 
Proud.  Armgart,  but  not  generous. 

ARMGART. 

Say  no  more. 
He  will  not  know  until  — 

WALPURGA. 

He  knows  already. 

ARMGART   (quickly)  . 

Is  he  come  back  ? 

WALPURGA. 

Yes,  and  will  soon  be  here. 
The  Doctor  had  twice  seen  him,  and  would  go 
From  hence  again  to  see  him. 


It  is  all  one. 


ARMGAHT.  117 

ARMGART. 

Well,  he  knows. 

WALPURGA. 


What  if  he  were  outside? 
I  hear  a  footstep  in  the  ante-room. 
ARMGART  (raising  herself-,  and  assuming  calmness) . 
Why  let  him  come,  of  course.     I  shall  behave 
Like  what  I  am,  a  common  personage 
Who  looks  for  nothing  but  civility. 
I  shall  not  play  the  fallen  heroine, 
Assume  a  tragic  part,  and  throw  out  cues 
For  a  beseeching  lover. 

WALPURGA. 

Some  one  raps. 

(Goes  to  the  door.) 
A  letter  —  from  the  Graf. 


118  AEMGABT. 


ARMGART. 

Then  open  it. 
(WALPURGA  still  offers  it.) 
Nay,  my  head  swims.     Read  it.     I  cannot  see. 

(WALPURGA  opens  it,  reads  and  parses.) 
Read  it.     Have  done  !     No  matter  what  it  is. 

WALPURGA  {reads  in  a  lov:,  hesitating  voice] . 
"  I  am  deeply  moved  —  my  heart  is  rent,  to  hear 
of  your  illness  and  its  cruel  result,  just  now  commu 
nicated  to  me  b}'  Dr.  G-rahn.  But  surely  it  is  pos 
sible  that  this  result  may  not  be  permanent.  For 
youth  such  as  yours,  Time  may  hold  in  store  some 
thing  more  than  resignation :  who  shall  say  that  it 
does  not  hold  renewal?  I  have  not  dared  to  ask 
admission  to  you  in  the  hours  of  a  recent  shock,  but 
I  cannot  depart  on  a  long  mission  without  tendering 
my  sympathy  and  my  farewell.  T  start  this  evening 
for  the  Caucasus,  and  thence  I  proceed  to  India, 
where  I  am  intrusted  by  the  Government  with  busi 
ness  which  may  be  of  long  duration." 

(WALPURGA  sits  down  dejectedly.) 


AEMGART.  119 

ARMGART  (after  a  slight  shudder,  bitterly) . 

The  Graf  has  much  discretion.     I  am  glad. 

He  spares  us  both  a  pain,  not  seeing  me. 

What  I  like  least  is  that  consoling  hope  — 

That  empty  cup,  so  neatly  ciphered  "  Time," 

Handed  me  as  a  cordial  for  despair. 

(Slowly  and  dreamily)  Time  —  what  a  word  to  fling 

as  charity ! 

Bland  neutral  word  for  slow,  dull-beating  pain  — 
Days,  months,  and  years  !  —  If  I  would  wait  for 

them ! 

(She  takes  up  her  hat  and  puts  it  on,  then  wraps 
her  mantle  round  her.     WALPURGA  leaves  the 
room.) 
Why,  this  is   but   beginning.     (WALP.  re-enters.) 

Kiss  me,  dear. 

I  am  going  now —  alone  — out  —  for  a  walk. 
Say  you  will  never  wound  me  any  more 
With  such  cajolen7  as  nurses  use 
To  patients  amorous  of  a  crippled  life. 
Flatter  the  blind  :  I  see. 


120  AEMGART. 


WALPURGA. 


Well,  I  was  wrong. 

In  haste  to  soothe,  I  snatched  at  flickers  merely. 
Believe  me,  I  will  flatter  you  no  more. 


ARMGART. 

Bear  witness,  I  am  calm.     I  read  my  lot 

As  soberly  as  if  it  were  a  tale 

Writ  by  a  creeping  feuilletonist,  and  called 

"  The  Woman's  Lot :  a  Tale  of  Everyday  :  " 

A  middling  woman's,  to  impress  the  world 

With  high  superfluousness  ;  her  thoughts  a  crop 

Of  chick-weed  errors  or  of  pot-herb  facts, 

Smiled  at  like  some  child's  drawing  on  a  slate. 

"  Genteel?  "     "  Oh  yes,  gives  lessons  ;  not  so  good 

As  any  man's  would  be,  but  cheaper  far." 

"  Pretty?  "     "  No  :  yet  she  makes  a  figure  fit 

For  good  society.     Poor  thing,  she  sews 

Both  late  and  early,  turns  and  alters  all  . 

To  suit  the  changing  mode.     Some  widower 


AEMGAET.  121 

Might    do    well,    marrying     her;     but     in    these 

days !  .  .  . 

Well,  she  can  somewhat  eke  her  narrow  gains 
By  writing,  just  to  furnish  her  with  gloves 
And  droskies  in  the  rain.     They  print  her  things 
Often  for  charity."  —  Oh  a  dog's  life ! 
A  harnessed  dog's,  that  draws  a  little  cart 
Voted  a  nuisance !     I  am  going  now. 

WALPURGA. 
Not  now,  the  door  is  locked. 

ARMGART. 

Give  me  the  key  ! 

WALPURGA. 

Locked  on  the  outside.     Gretchen  has  the  key : 
She  is  gone  on  errands. 

ARMGART. 

What,  you  dare  to  keep  me* 
Your  prisoner  ? 


122  ARMGART. 

WALPURGA. 

And  have  I  not  been  yours  ? 
Your  wish  has  been  a  bolt  to  keep  me  in. 
Perhaps  that  middling  woman  whom  you  paint 
With  far-off  scorn  .  .  . 

ARMGART. 

I  paint  what  I  must  be  ! 
What  is  my  soul  to  me  without  the  voice 
That  gave  its  freedom  ?  —  gave  it  one  grand  touch 
And  made  it  nobly  human?  —  Prisoned  now, 
Prisoned  in  all  the  petty  mimicries 
Called  woman's  knowledge,  that  will  fit  the  world 
As  doll-clothes  fit  a  man.     I  can  do  nought 
Better  than  what  a  million  women  do  — 
Must  drudge  among  the  crowd,  and  feel  my  life 
Beating  upon  the  world  without  response, 
Beating  with  passion  through  an  insect's  horn 
That  moves  a  millet-seed  laboriously. 
If  I  would  do  it ! 


ABMGART.  123 

WALPURGA  (coldly). 

And  why  should  you  not? 

ARMGART  (turning  quickly) . 

Because  Heaven  made  me  royal  —  wrought  me  out 

With  subtle  finish  towards  pre-eminence, 

Made  every  channel  of  my  soul  converge 

To  one  high  function,  and  then  flung  me  down,. 

That  breaking  I  might  turn  to  subtlest  pain. 

An  inborn  passion  gives  a  rebel's  right ; 

I  would  rebel  and  die  in  twenty  worlds 

Sooner  than  bear  the  yoke  of  thwarted  life, 

Each  keenest  sense  turned  into  keen  distaste, 

Hunger  not  satisfied  but  kept  alive 

Breathing  in  languor  half  a  century. 

All  the  world  now  is  but  a  rack  of  threads 

To  twist  and  dwarf  me  into  pettiness 

And  basely  feigned  content,  the  placid  mask 

Of  woman's  misery. 


124  ARMGART. 

WALPURGA  (indignantly) . 

Ay,  such  a  mask 

As  the  few  born  like  you  to  easy  joy, 
Cradled  in  privilege,  take  for  natural 
On  all  the  lowly  faces  that  must  look 
Upward  to  }*ou  !     What  revelation  now 
Shows  you  the  mask  or  gives  presentiment 
Of  sadness  hidden?     You  who  every  day 
These  five  years  saw  me  limp  to  wait  on  you, 
And  thought  the  order  perfect  which  gave  me, 
The  girl  without  pretension  to  be  aught, 
A  splendid  cousin  for  my  happiness  : 
To  watch  the  night  through  when  her  brain  was  fired 
With  too  much  gladness  —  listen,  always  listen 
To  what  she  felt,  who  having  power  had  right 
To  feel  exorbitantly,  and  submerge 
The  souls  around  her  with  the  poured-out  flood 
Of  what  must  be  ere  she  were  satisfied ! 
That  was  feigned  patience,  was  it  ?     Why  not  love, 
Love  nurtured  even  with  that  strength  of  self 
Which  found  no  room  save  in  another's  life  ? 


ABMGART.  125 

Oh  such  as  I  know  joy  by  negatives, 

And  all  their  deepest  passion  is  a  pang 

Till  they  accept  their  pauper's  heritage, 

And  meekly  live  from  out  the  general  store 

Of  joy  they  were  born  stripped  of.     I  accept  — 

NajT,  now  would  sooner  choose  it  than  the  wealth 

Of  natures  you  call  royal,  who  can  live 

In  mere  mock  knowledge  of  their  fellows'  woe, 

Thinking  their  smiles  may  heal  it. 

ARMGART  (tremulously) . 

Nay,  Walpurga, 

I  did  not  make  a  palace  of  my  joy 
To  shut  the  world's  truth  from  me.     All  my  good 
Was  that  I  touched  the  world,  and  made  a  part 
In  the  world's  dower  of  beauty,  strength,  and  bliss ; 
It  was  the  glimpse  of  consciousness  divine 
Which  pours  out  day,  and  sees  the  day  is  good. 
Now  I  am  fallen  dark  ;  I  sit  in  gloom, 
Remembering  bitterly.     Yet  you  speak  truth  ; 
I  wearied  you,  it  seems  ;  took  all  your  help 
As  cushioned  nobles  use  a  weary  serf, 
Not  looking  at  his  face. 


126  AEMGART. 

x-" 

WALPURGA. 

Oh,  I  but  stand 

As  a  small  sj'mboi  for  a  mighty  sum  — 
The  sum  of  claims  unpaid  for  myriad  lives  ; 
I  think  }'ou  never  set  }~our  loss  beside 
That  mighty  deficit.     Is  your  work  gone  — 
The  prouder  queenly  work  that  paid  itself, 
And  yet  was  overpaid  with  men's  applause  ? 
Are  }TOU  no  longer  chartered,  privileged, 
But  sunk  to  simple  woman's  penury, 
To  ruthless  Nature's  chary  average  — 
Where  is  the  rebel's  right  for  you  alone  ? 
Noble  rebellion  lifts  a  common  load  ; 
But  what  is  he  who  flings  his  own  load  off, 
And  leaves  his  fellows  toiling?     Rebel's  right? 
Say  rather,  the  deserter's.     Oh,  you  smiled 
From  your  clear  height  on  all  the  million  lots 
Which  yet  you  brand  as  abject. 

ARMGART. 

I  was  blind 


ARMGART.  ^%<J         ^ 

With  too  much  happiness  :  true  vision  comes 
Only,  it  seems,  with  sorrow.     Were  there  one 
This  moment  near  me,  suffering  what  I  feel, 
And  needing  me  for  comfort  in  her  pang  — 
Then  it  were  worth  the  while  to  live  ;  not  else. 

WALPURGA. 

One  —  near  you  —  why,  they  throng  !  you  hardly  stir 
But  your  act  touches  them.     We  touch  afar. 
For  did  not  swarthy  slaves  of  yesterday 
Leap  in  their  bondage  at  the  Hebrews'  flight, 
Which  touched  them  through  the  thrice  millennial 

dark? 

But  you  can  find  the  sufferer  you  need 
With  touch  less  subtle. 

ARMGART. 

Who  has  need  of  me  ? 

WALPURGA. 

Love  finds  the  need  it  fills.     But  you  are  hard. 


128  AEMGAET. 

ARMGART. 

Is  it  not  you,  Walpurga,  who  are  hard? 

You  humored  all  my  wishes  till  to-day,  « 

When  fate  has  blighted  me 

WALPURGA. 

You  would  not  hear 

The  ' '  chant  of  consolation  :  "  words  of  hope 
Only  imbittered  you.     Then  hear  the  truth  — 
A  lame  girl's  truth,  whom  no  one  ever  praised 
For  being  cheerful.     "  It  is  well,"  they  said  : 
"  Were  she  cross-grained,  she  could  not  be  endured." 
A  word  of  truth  from  her  had  startled  you  ; 
But  you  —  you  claimed  the  universe  ;  nought  less 
Than  all  existence  working  in  sure  tracks 
Towards  your  supremacy.     The  wheels  might  scathe 
A  nryriad  destinies  —  na}r,  must  perforce  ; 
But  3Tours  they  must  keep  clear  of ;  just  for  }'ou 
The  seething  atoms  through  the  firmament 
Must  bear  a  human  heart  —  which  }TOU  had  not ! 
For  what  is  it  to  you  that  women,  men, 


ARMGART.  129 

Plod,  faint,  are  weary,  and  espouse  despair 
Of  aught  but  fellowship  ?     Save  that  you  spurn 
To  be  among  them?     Now,  then,  you  are  lame  — 
Maimed,  as  you  said,  and  levelled  with  the  crowd : 
Call  it  new  birth  —  birth  from  that  monstrous  Self 
Which,  smiling  down  upon  a  race  oppressed, 
Says,  "  All  is  good,  for  I  am  throned  at  ease." 
Dear  Armgart  —  nay,  you  tremble  —  I  am  cruel. 

ARMGART. 

Oh  no!   hark!     Some   one   knocks.     Come  in!  — 
come  in  I 

(Enter  LEO.) 

LEO. 

See,  Gretchen  let  me  in.     I  could  not  rest 
Longer  away  from  you. 

ARMGART. 

Sit  down,  dear  Leo. 
Walpurga,  I  would  speak  with  him  alone. 

(WALPURGA  goes  out.) 


130  ARMGART.. 

LEO  (hesitatingly) . 
You  mean  to  walk? 

ARMGART. 

No,  I  shall  stay  within. 

(She  takes  off  her  hat  and  mantle,  and  sits,  down 
immediately.  After  a  pause,  speaking  in  a 
subdued  tone  to  LEO.) 

How  old  are  you  ? 

LEO. 
Threescore  and  five. 

ARMGART. 

That's  old. 

I  nevet*  thought  till  now  how  you  have  lived. 
They  hardly  ever  play  j^our  music? 

LEO  (raising  his  eyebrows,  and  throwing  out 
his  lip.) 

No! 


AEMGAET.  131 

Schubert  too  wrote  for  silence  :  half  his  work 
Lay  like  a  frozen  Rhine  till  summers  came 
That  warmed  the  grass  above  him.     Even  so  ! 
His  music  lives  now  with  a  mighty  youth. 

ARMGART. 

Do  you  think  yours  will  live  when  you  are  dead  ? 

LEO. 

Pfui !     The  time  was,  I  drank  that  home-brewed  wine 
And  found  it  heady,  while  my  blood  was  young : 
Now  it  scarce  warms  me.     Tipple  it  as  I  may, 
I  am  sober  still,  and  say  :  "  My  old  friend  Leo, 
Much  grain  is  wasted  in  the  world  and  rots  ; 
Why  not  thy  handful  ?  " 

ARMGART. 

Strange  !  since  1  have  known  you 
Till  now  I  never  wondered  how  you  lived. 
When  I  sang  well — that  was  your  jubilee. 
But  you  were  old  already. 


132  AKMGAKT. 

LEO. 

Yes,  child,  yes : 

Youth  thinks  itself  the  goal  of  each  old  life  ; 
Age  has  but  travelled  from  a  far-off  time 
Just  to  be  ready  for  youth's  service.     Well ! 
It  was  my  chief  delight  to  perfect  you. 

ARMGART. 

'Good  Leo  !     You  have  lived  on  little  joys. 

But  your  delight  in  me  is  crushed  forever. 

Your  pains,  where  are  they  now  ?   They  shaped  intent 

Which  action  frustrates  ;  shaped  an  inward  sense 

Which  is  but  keen  despair,  the  agony 

Of  highest  vision  in  the  lowest  pit. 

LEO. 

Nay,  nay,  I  have  a  thought :  keep  to  the  stage, 
To  drama  without  song  ;  for  you  can  act  — 
Who  knows  how  well,  when  all  the  soul  is  poured 
Into  that  sluice  alone  ? 


AKMGAKT.  133 

ARMGART. 

I  know,  and  you  : 

The  second  or  third  best  in  tragedies 
That  cease  to  touch  the  fibre  of  the  time. 
No  ;  song  is  gone,  btit  nature's  other  gift, 
Self-judgment,  is  not  gone.     Song  was  my  speech, 
And  with  its  impulse  only,  action  came  : 
Song  was  the  battle's  onset,  when  cool  purpose 
Glows  into  rage,  becomes  a  warring  god 
And  moves  the  limbs  with  miracle.     But  now  — 
Oh,   I  should  stand  hemmed  in  with  thoughts  and 

rules  — 

Say  u  This  way  passion  acts,"  yet  never  feel 
The  might  of  passion.     How  should  I  declaim  ? 
As  monsters  write  with  feet  instead  of  hands. 
I  will  not  feed  on  doing  great  tasks  ill, 
Dull  the  world's  sense  with  mediocrity, 
And  live  by  trash  that  smothers  excellence. 
One  gift  I  had  that  ranked  me  with  the  best  — 
The  secret  of  my  frame  —  and  that  is  gone. 
For  all  life  now  I  am  a  broken  thing. 


134  AEMGAKT. 

But  silence  there  !     Good  Leo,  advise  me  now. 
I  would  take  humble  work  and  do  it  well  — 
Teach  music,  singing  —  what  I  can  —  not  here, 
But  in  some  smaller  town  where  I  may  bring 
The  method  you  have  taught  me,  pass  your  gift 
To  others  who  can  use  it  for  delight. 
You  think  I  can  do  that  ? 

(/She  pauses  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.) 

LEO. 

Yes,  yes,  dear  child  ! 

And  it  were  well,  perhaps,  to  change  the  place  — 
Begin  afresh  as  I  did  when  I  left 
Vienna  with  a  heart  half  broken. 

ARMGART  (roused  by  surprise) . 

You? 

LEO. 

Well,  it  is  long  ago.     But  I  had  lost  — 
No  matter !     We  must  bury  our  dead  joys 


ARMGART.  185 

And  live  above  them  with  a  living  world. 
But  whither,  think  you,  you  would  like  to  go? 

ARMGART. 

To  Freiburg. 

LEO. 

In  the  Breisgau  ?    And  why  there  ? 
It  is  too  small. 

ARMGART. 

Walpurga  was  bora  there, 
And  loves  the  place.     She  quitted  it  for  me 
These  five  years  past.     Now  I  will  take  her  there. 
Dear  Leo,  I  will  bury  my  dead  joy. 

LEO. 

Mothers  do  so,  bereaved  ;  then  learn  to  love 
Another's  living  child. 

ARMGART. 

Oh,  it  is  hard 


136  AEMGART. 

• 

To  take  the  little  corpse,  and  lay  it  low, 

And  say,  "  None  misses  it  but  me." 

She  sings  .   .   . 

I  mean  Paulina  sings  Fidelio, 

And  they  will  welcome  her  to-night. 

LEO. 

Well,  well, 

Tis  better  that  our  griefs  should  not  spread  far. 
1870. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 


137 


HOW   LISA   LOVED   THE   KING. 


Six  hundred  years  ago,  in  Dante's  time, 

Before  his  cheek  was  furrowed  by  deep  rhyme  — 

When  Europe,  fed  afresh  from  Eastern  story, 

Was  like  a  garden  tangled  with  the  glory 

Of  flowers  hand-planted  and  of  flowers  air-sown, 

Climbing  and  trailing,  budding  and  full-blown, 

Where  purple  bells  are  tossed  amid  pink  stars, 

And  springing  blades,  green  troops  in  innocent  wars, 

Crowd  every  shady  spot  of  teeming  earth, 

Making  invisible  motion  visible  birth  — 

Six  hundred  years  ago,  Palermo  town 

Kept  holiday.     A  deed  of  great  renown, 

A  high  revenge,  had  freed  it  from  the  yoke 

Of  hated  Frenchmen,  and  from  Calpe's  rock 

139 


140  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 

To  where  the  Bosphorus  caught  the  earlier  sun, 

'Twas  told  that  Pedro,  King  of  Aragon, 

"Was  welcomed  master  of  all  Sicily, 

A  royal  knight,  supreme  as  kings  should  be, 

In  strength  and  gentleness  that'make  high  chivalry. 

Spain  was  the  favorite  home  of  knightly  grace, 

Where  generous  men  rode  steeds  of  generous  race ; 

Both  Spanish,  yet  half  Arab,  both  inspired 

By  mutual  spirit,  that  each  motion  fired 

With  beauteous  response,  like  minstrelsy 

Afresh  fulfilling  fresh  expectancy. 

So  when  Palermo  made  high  festival, 

The  joy  of  matrons  and  of  maidens  all 

Was  the  mock  terror  of  the  tournament, 

Where  safety,  with  the  glimpse  of  danger  blent, 

Took  exaltation  as  from  epic  song, 

Which  greatly  tells  the  pains  that  to  great  life  belong. 

And  in  all  eyes  King  Pedro  was  the  king 

Of  cavaliers  :  as  in  a  full-gemmed  ring 

The  largest  rub}^  or  as  that  bright  star 

Whose  shining  shows  us  where  the  Hyads  are. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING.  141 

His  the  best  genet,  and  he  sat  it  best ; 
His  weapon,  whether  tilting  or  in  rest, 
Was  worthiest  watching,  and  his  face  once  seen 
Gave  to  the  promise  of  his  royal  mien 
Such  rich  fulfilment  as  the  opened  eyes 
Of  a  loved  sleeper,  or  the  long-watched  rise 
Of  vernal  day,  whose  joy  o'er  stream  and  meadow 
flies. 

But  of  the  maiden  forms  that  thick  inwreathed 
The  broad  piazza  and  sweet  witchery  breathed, 
With  innocent  faces  budding  all  arow 
From  balconies  and  windows  high  and  low, 
Who  was  it  felt  the  deep  mysterious  glow, 
The  impregnation  with  supernal  fire 
Of  young  ideal  love  —  transformed  desire, 
Whose  passion  is  but  worship  of  that  Best 
Taught  by  the  many-mingled  creed  of  each  young 
breast  ? 

'Twas  gentle  Lisa,  of  no  noble  line, 
Child  of  Bernardo,  a  rich  Florentine, 


142  HOW  LISA   LOVED   THE   KING. 

Who  from  his  merchant-city  hither  came 
To  trade  in  drags  ;  yet  kept  an  honest  fame, 
And  had  the  virtue  not  to  try  and  sell 
Drugs  that  had  none.     He  loved  his  riches  well, 
But  loved  them  chiefly  for  his  Lisa's  sake. 
Whom  with  a  father's  care  he  sought  to  make 
The  bride  of  some  true  honorable  man :  — 
Of  Perdicone  (so  the  rumor  ran) , 
Whose  birth  was  higher  than  his  fortunes  were  ; 
For  still  your  trader  likes  a  mixture  fair 
Of  blood  that  hurries  to  some  higher  strain 
Than  reckoning  money's  loss  and  money's  gain. 
And  of  such  mixture  good  may  surety  come  : 
Lords'  scions  so  may  learn  to  cast  a  sum, 
A  trader's  grandson  bear  a  well-set  head, 
And  have  less  conscious  manners,  better  bred ; 
Nor,  when  he  tries  to  be  polite,  be  rude  instead. 

'Twas  Perdicone's  friends  made  overtures 
To  good  Bernardo  ;  so  one  dame  assures 
Her  neighbor  dame  who  notices  the  youth 
Fixing  his  eyes  on  Lisa ;  and  in  truth 


HOW   LISA   LOVED   THE   KING.  143 

Eyes  that  could  see  her  on  this  summer  day 
Might  find  it  hard  to  turn  another  way. 
She  had  a  pensive  beauty,  yet  not  sad  ; 
Rather,  like  minor  cadences  that  glad 
The  hearts  of  little  birds  amid  spring  boughs  ; 
And  oft  the  trumpet  or  the  joust  would  rouse 
Pulses  that  gave  her  cheek  a  finer  glow, 
Parting  her  lips  that  seemed  a  mimic  bow 
By  chiselling  Love  for  play  in  coral  wrought, 
Then  quickened  by  him  with  the  passionate  thought, 
The  soul  that  trembled  in  the  lustrous  night 
Of  slow  long  e}Tes.     Her  body  was  so  slight, 
It  seemed  she  could  have  floated  in  the  sky, 
And  with  the  angelic  choir  made  symphony  ; 
But  in  her  cheek's  rich  tinge,  and  in  the  dark 
Of  darkest  hair  and  eyes,  she  bore  a  mark 
Of  kinship  to  her  generous  mother  earth, 
The   fervid  land  that   gives   the   plumy  palm-trees 
birth. 

She  saw  not  Perdicone  ;  her  young  mind 
Dreamed  not  that  any  man  had  ever  pined 


144  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 

For  such  a  little  simple  maid  as  she : 

She  had  but  dreamed  how  heavenly  it  would  be 

To  love  some  hero  noble,  beauteous,  great, 

Who  would  live  stories  worthy  to  narrate, 

Like  Roland,  or  the  warriors  of  Troy, 

The  Cid,  or  Amadis,  or  that  fair  boy 

Who  conquered  every  thing  beneath  the  sun, 

And  somehow,  some  time,  died  at  Babylon 

Fighting  the  Moors.     For  heroes  all  were  good 

And  fair  as  that  archangel  who  withstood 

The  Evil  One,  the  author  of  all  wrong  — 

That  Evil  One  who  made  the  French  so  strong ; 

And  now  the  flower  of  heroes  must  be  he 

Who  drove  those  tyrants  from  dear  Sicily, 

So  that  her  maids  might  walk  to  vespers  tranquilly. 

Young  Lisa  saw  this  hero  in  the  king, 

And  as  wood-lilies  that  sweet  odors  bring 

Might  dream  the  light  that  opes  their  modest  eyne 

Was  lily-odored,  —  and  as  rites  divine, 

Round  turf-laid  altars,  or  'neath  roofs  of  stone, 

Draw  sanctity  from  out  the  heart  alone 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING.  145 

That  loves  and  worships,  so  the  miniature 
Perplexed  of  her  soul's  world,  all  virgin  pure, 
Filled  with  heroic  virtues  that  bright  form, 
Raona's  royalt}',  the  finished  norm 
Of  horsemanship  —  the  half  of  chivalry  : 
For  how  could  generous  men  avengers  be, 
Save  as  God's  messengers  on  coursers  fleet?  — 
These,   scouring    earth,   made    Spain    with    Syria 

meet 

In  one  self  world  where  the  same  right  had  sway, 
And  good  must  grow  as  grew  the  blessed  day. 
No  more  ;  great  Love  his  essence  had  endued 
With  Pedro's  form,  and  entering  subdued 
The  soul  of  Lisa,  fervid  and  intense, 
Proud  in  its  choice  of  proud  obedience 
To  hardship  glorified  by  perfect  reverence. 

Sweet  Lisa  homeward  carried  that  dire  guest, 
And  in  her  chamber  through  the  hours  of  rest 
The  darkness  was  alight  for  her  with  sheen 
Of  arms,  and  plumed  helm,  and  bright  between 
Their  commoner  gloss,  like  the  pure  living  spring 
10 


146  HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING. 

'Twixt  porphyry  lips,  or  living  bird's  bright  wing 
'Twixt  golden  wires,  the  glances  of  the  king 
Flashed  on  her  soul,  and  waked  vibrations  there 
Of  known  delights  love-mixed  to  new  and  rare  : 
The   impalpable   dreana   was   turned    to    breathing 

flesh, 

Chill  thought  of  summer  to  the  warm  close  mesh 
Of  sunbeams  held  between  the  citron-leaves, 
Clothing  her  life  of  life.     Oh,  she  believes 
That  she  could  be  content  if  he  but  knew 
(Her  poor  small  self  could  claim  no  other  due) 
How  Lisa's  lowly  love  had  highest  reach 
Of  winged  passion,  whereto  winged  speech 
Would  be  scorched  remnants  left  by  mounting  flame. 
Though,  had  she  such  lame  message,  were  it  blame 
To  tell  what  greatness  dwelt  in  her,  what  rank 
She  held  in  loving  ?     Modest  maidens  shrank 
From  telling  love  that  fed  on  selfish  hope  ; 
But  love,  as  hopeless  as  the  shattering  song 
Wailed  for  loved  beings  who  have  joined  the  throng 
Of  mighty  dead  ones.  .  .  .Nay,  but  she  was  weak  — 
Knew  only  prayers  and  ballads  —  could  not  speak 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE   KING.  147 

With  eloquence  save  what  dumb  creatures  have, 
That   with   small   cries   and   touches   small    boons 
crave. 

She  watched  all  day  that  she  might  see  him  pass 
With  knights  and  ladies  ;  but  she  said,  "  Alas  ! 
Though  he  should  see  me,  it  were  all  as  one 
He  saw  a  pigeon  sitting  on  the  stone 
Of  wall  or  balcony  :  some  colored  spot 
His  eye  just  sees,  his  mind  regardeth  not. 
I  have  no  music-touch  that  could  bring  nigh 
My  love  to  his  soul's  hearing.     I  shall  die, 
And  he  will  never  know  who  Lisa  was  — 
The  trader's  child,  wrhose  soaring  spirit  rose 
As  hedge-born  aloe-flowers  that  rarest  years    dis 
close. 

"  For  were  I  now  a  fair  deep-breasted  queen 
A-horseback,  with  blonde  hair,  and  tunic  green 
Gold-bordered,  like  Costanza,  I  should  need 
No  change  within  to  make  me  queenly  there ; 
For  they  the  royal-hearted  women  are 


148  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 

Who  nobly  love  the  noblest,  yet  have  grace 
For  needy  suffering  lives  in  lowliest  place, 
Carrying  a  choicer  sunlight  in  their  smile, 
The  heavenliest  ray  that  pitieth  the  vile. 
My  love  is  such,  it  cannot  choose  but  soar 
Up  to  the  highest ;  yet  forevermore, 
Though  I  were  happ}T,  throned  beside  the  king, 
I  should  be  tender  to  each  little  thin"* 

O 

With   hurt  warm    breast,    that  had   no   speech  to 

tell 

Its  inward  pang,  and  I  would  soothe  it  well 
With  tender  touch  and  with  a  low  soft  moan 
For  company  :  my  dumb  love-pang  is  lone, 
Prisoned    as    topaz-beam   within    a    rough-garbed 

stone." 

So,  in  ward- wailing,  Lisa  passed  her  days. 

Each  night  the  August  moon  with  changing  phase 

Looked  broader,  harder  on  her  unchanged  pain  ; 

Each  noon  the  heat  lay  heavier  again 

On  her  despair  ;  until  her  body  frail 

Shrank  like  the  snow  that  watchers  in  the  vale 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KQsG.  149 

See  narrowed  on  the  height  each  summer  morn  ; 
While  her  dark  glance  burnt  larger,  more  forlorn, 
As  if  the  soul  within  her  all  on  fire 
Made  of  her  being  one  swift  funeral  pyre. 
Father  and  mother  saw  with  sad  dismay 
The  meaning  of  their  riches  melt  away  : 
For  without  Lisa  what  would  sequins  buy  ? 
What  wish  were  left  if  Lisa  were  to  die? 
Through  her  they  cared  for  summers  still  to  come, 
Else  they  would  be  as  ghosts  without  a  home 
In  any  flesh  that  could  feel  glad  desire. 
They  pay  the  best  physicians,  never  tire 
Of  seeking  what  will  soothe  her,  promising 
That  aught  she  longed  for,  though  it  were  a  thing 
Hard  to  be  come  at  as  the  Indian  snow, 
Or  roses  that  on  alpine  summits  blow  — 
It  should  be  hers.     She  answers  with  low  voice, 
She  longs  for  death  alone  —  death  is  her  choice  ; 
Death  is  the  King  who  never  did  think  scorn, 
But  rescues  every  meanest  soul  to  sorrow  born. 

ret  one  day,  as  they  bent  above  her  bed 

And  watched  her  in  brief  sleep,  her  drooping  head 


150  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE   KING. 

Turned  gently,  as  the  thirsty  flowers  that  feel 

Some  moist  revival  through  their  petals  steal, 

And  little  flutterings  of  her  lids  and  lips 

Told  of  such  dreamy  joy  as  sometimes  dips 

A  slsyey  shadow  in  the  mind's  poor  pool. 

She  oped  her  eyes,  and  turned  their  dark  gems  full 

Upon  her  father,  as  in  utterance  dumb 

Of  some  new  prayer  that  in  her  sleep  had  come. 

11  What  is  it,  Lisa?  "     "  Father,  I  would  see 

Minuccio,  the  great  singer  ;  bring  him  me." 

For  always,  night  and  day,  her  unstilled  thought, 

Wandering  all  o'er  its  little  world,  had  sought 

How  she  could  reach,  by  some  soft  pleading  touch, 

King  Pedro's  soul,  that  she  who  loved  so  much 

Dying,  might  have  a  place  within  his  mind  — 

A  little  grave  which  he  would  sometimes  find 

And  plant  some  flower  on  it  —  some  thought,  some 

memory  kind. 

Till  in  her  dream  she  saw  Minuccio 
Touching  his  viola,  and  chanting  low 
A  strain  that,  falling  on  her  brokenly, 
Seemed  blossoms  lightly  blown  from  off  a  tree, 


HOW   LISA   LOVED   THE   KING.  151 

Each  burthened  with  a  word  that  was  a  scent  — 
llaona,  Lisa,  love,  death,  tournament ; 
Then  in  her  dream  she  said,  "  He  sings  of -me  — 
Might  be  rny  messenger  ;  ah,  now  I  see 
The  king  is  listening  "  —     Then  she  awoke, 
And,  missing  her  dear  dream,  that  new-born  longing 
spoke. 

She  longed  for  music  :  that  was  natural ; 

Physicians  said  it  was  medicinal ; 

The  humors  might  be  schooled  by  true  consent 

Of  a  line  tenor  and  fine  instrument ; 

In  brief,  good  music,  mixed  with  doctor's  stuff, 

Apollo  with  Asklepios  —  enough  ! 

Minuccio,  entreated,  gladly  came. 

(lie  was  a  singer  of  most  gentle  fame  — 

A  noble,  kindly  spirit,  not  elate 

That  he  was  famous,  but  that  song  was  great  — 

Would  sing  as  finely  to  this  suffering  child 

As  at  the  court  where  princes  on  him  smiled.) 

Gently  he  entered  and  sat  down  by  her, 

Asking  what  sort  of  strain  she  would  prefer  — 


152  HOW  LISA   LOVED   THE  KING. 

The  voice  alone,  or  voice  with  viol  wed  ; 

Then,  when  she  chose  the  last,  he  preluded 

With  magic  hand,  that  summoned  from  the  strings 

Aerial  spirits,  rare  jet  vibrant  wings 

That  fanned  the  pulses  of  his  listener, 

And  waked  each  sleeping  sense  with  blissful  stir. 

Her  cheek  already  showed  a  slow  faint  blush, 

But  soon  the  voice,  in  pure  full  liquid  rush, 

Made  all  the  passion,  that  till  now  she  felt, 

Seem  but  cool  waters  that  in  warmer  melt. 

Finished  the  song,  she  pra}red  to  be  alone 

With  kind  Minuccio  ;  for  her  faith  had  grown 

To  trust  him  as  if  missioned  like  a  priest 

With  some  high  grace,  that  when  his  singing  ceased 

Still  made  him  wiser,  more  magnanimous 

Than  common  men  who  had  no  genius. 

So  laying  her  small  hand  within  his  palm, 

She  told  him  how  that  secret  glorious  harm 

Of  loftiest  loving  had  befallen  her  ; 

That  death,  her  only  hope,  most  bitter  were, 

If  when  she  died  her  love  must  perish  too 

As  songs  unsung  and  thoughts  unspoken  do, 


HOW   LISA   LOVED   THE   KING.  153 

Which  else  might  live  within  another  breast. 
She  said,  "  Minuccio,  the  grave  were  rest, 
If  I  were  sure,  that  tying  cold  and  lone, 
My  love,  my  best  of  life,  had  safely  flown, 
And  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  king ; 
See,  'tis  a  small  weak  bird,  with  unfledged  wing. 
But  }'ou  will  carry  it  for  me  secretly, 
And  bear  it  to  the  king,  then  come  to  me 
And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  and  I  shall  go 
Content,    knowing  that   he   I   love   my   love   cloth 
know." 

Then  she  wept  silently,  but  each  large  tear 
Made  pleading  music  to  the  inward  ear 
Of  good  Minuccio.     "  Lisa,  trust  in  me," 
He  said,  and  kissed  her  fingers  loyally  ; 
"  It  is  sweet  law  to  me  to  do  your  will, 
And  ere  the  sun  his  round  shall  thrice  fulfil, 
I  hope  to  bring  you  news  of  such  rare  skill 
As   amulets   have,  that  aches  in   trusting   bosoms 
still." 


154  HOW   LISA  LOVED   THE   KING. 

He  needed  not  to  pause  and  first  devise 
How  he  should  tell  the  king ;  for  in  no  wise 
Were  such  love-message  worthily  bested 
Save  in  fine  verse  by  music  rendered. 
He  sought  a  poet-friend,  a  Siennese, 
And  "  Mico,  mine,"  he  said,  "  full  oft  to  please 
Thy  whim  of  sadness  I  have  sung  thee  strains 
To  make  thee  weep  in  verse  :  now  pay  my  pains, 
And  write  me  a  canzone  divinely  sad, 
Sinlessl}'  passionate  and  meekly  mad 
With  3'oung  despair,  speaking  a  maiden's  heart 
Of  fifteen  summers,  who  would  fain  depart 
From  ripening  life's  new-urgent  nrystery  — 
Love-choice  of  one  too  high  her  love  to  be  — 
But  cannot  yield  her  breath  till  she  has  poured 
Her  strength  away  in  this  hot-bleeding  word, 
Telling  the  secret  of  her  soul  to  her  soul's  lord.'* 

Said  Mico,  "  Nay,  that  thought  is  poesy, 
I  need  but  listen  as  it  sings  to  me. 
Come  thou  again  to-morrow."     The  third  day, 
When  linked  notes  had  perfected  the  lay, 


HOW   LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  155 

Minuccio  had  his  summons  to  the  court 
To  make,  as  he  was  wont,  the  moments  short 
Of  ceremonious  dinner  to  the  king. 
This  was  the  time  when  he  had  meant  to  bring 
Melodious  message  of  3'oung  Lisa's  love : 
He  waited  till  the  air  had  ceased  to  move 
To  ringing  silver,  till  Falernian  wine 
Made  quickened  sense  with  quietude  combine, 
And  then  with  passionate  descant  made  each  ear 
incline. 

Love,  thou  didst  see  me,  light  as  morning's  breath, 
Roaming  a  garden  in  a  joyous  error. 
Laughing  at  chases  vain,  a  happy  child, 
Till  of  thy  countenance  the  alluring  terror 
In  majesty  from  out  the  blossoms  smiled, 
From  out  their  life  seeming  a  beauteous  Death. 

0  Love,  who  so  didst  choose  me  for  thine  own, 
Taking  this  little  isle  to  thy  great  sway, 
See  now,  it  is  the  honor  of  thy  throne 
That  what  thou  gavest  perish  not  away, 


156  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 

JVbr  leave  some  sweet  remembrance  to  atone 

By  life  that  will  be  for  the  brief  life  gone : 

Here,  ere  the  shroud  o'er  these  frail  limbs  be  thrown 

Since  every  king  is  vassal  unto  thee, 

My  heart's  lord  needs  must  listen  loyally  — 

0  tell  him  I  am  waiting  for  my  Death ! 

Tell  him,  for  that  he  hath  such  royal  power 
'  Twere  hard  for  him  to  think,  how  small  a  thing, 
Hotv  slight  a  sign,  would  make  a  wealthy  dower 
For  one  like  me,  the  bride  of  that  pale  king 
Whose  bed  is  mine  at  some  swift-nearing  hour. 
Go  to  my  lord,  and  to  his  memory  bring 
That  happy  birthday  of  my  sorrowing 
WJien  his  large  glance  made  meaner  gazers  glad, 
Entering  the  bannered  lists :  'twas  then  I  had 
Tlie  wound  that  laid  me  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Tell  him,  0  Love,  I  am  a  lowly  maid, 
No  more  than  any  little  knot  of  thyme 
That  he  with  careless  foot  may  often  tread; 
Yet  lowest  fragrance  oft  will  mount  sublime 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE   BRNfl>  157 

And  cleave  to  things  most  high  and  hallowm^J'  VtW** 

As  doth  the  fragrance  of  my  life's  springtime, 

My  lowly  love,  that  soaring  seeks  to  climb 

Within  his  thought,  and  make  a  gentle  bliss, 

More  blissful  than  if  mine,  in  being  his : 

So  shall  I  live  in  him  and  rest  in  Death. 

The  strain  was  new.     It  seemed  a  pleading  cry, 
And  3ret  a  rounded  perfect  melody, 
Making  grief  beauteous  as  the  tear-filled  eyes 
Of  little  child  at  little  miseries. 
Trembling  at  first,  then  swelling  as  it  rose, 
Like  rising  light  that  broad  and  broader  grows, 
It  filled  the  hall,  and  so  possessed  the  air 
That  not  one  breathing  soul  was  present  there, 
Though  dullest,  slowest,  but  was  quivering 
In  music's  grasp,  and  forced  to  hear  her  sing. 
But  most  such  sweet  compulsion  took  the  mood 
Of  Pedro  (tired  of  doing  what  he  would) . 
Whether  the  words  which  that   strange    meaning 

bore 
Were  but  the  poet's  feigning,  or  aught  more, 


158  HOW   LISA   LOVED   THE   KING. 

Was  bounden  question,  since  their  aim  must  be 

At  some  imagined  or  true  royalty. 

He  called  Minuccio  and  bade  him  tell 

What  poet  of  the  day  had  writ  so  well ; 

For  though  they  came  behind  all  former  rhymes, 

The  verses  were  not  bad  for  these  poor  times. 

"  Monsignor,  they  are  only  three  days  old," 

Minuccio  said  ;  ' '  but  it  must  not  be  told 

How  this  song  grew,  save  to  your  royal  ear." 

Eager,  the  king  withdrew  where  none  was  near, 

And  gave  close  audience  to  Minuccio, 

Who  meetly  told  that  love-tale  meet  to  know. 

The  king  had  features  pliant  to  confess 

The  presence  of  a  manly  tenderness  — 

Son,  father,  brother,  lover,  blent  in  one, 

In  fine  harmonic  exaltation  — 

The  spirit  of  religious  chivalry. 

He  listened,  and  Minuccio  could  see 

The  tender,  generous  admiration  spread 

O'er  all  his  face,  and  glorify  his  head 

With  ro}'alty  that  would  have  kept  its  rank 

Though  his  brocaded  robes  to  tatters  shrank. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE   KING.  159 

He  answered  without  pause, "  So  sweet  a  maid, 

In  nature's  own  insignia  arrayed, 

Though  she  were  come  of  unmixed  trading  blood 

That  sold  and  bartered  ever  since  the  Flood, 

Would  have  the  self-contained  and  single  worth 

Of  radiant  jewels  born  in  darksome  earth. 

Raona  were  a  shame  to  Sicily, 

Letting  such  love  and  tears  unhonored  be  : 

Hasten,  Minuccio,  tell  her  that  the  king 

To-day  will  surely  visit  her  when  vespers  ring." 

Joyful,  Minuccio  bore  the  joyous  word, 
And  told  at  full,  while  none  but  Lisa  heard, 
How  each  thing  had  befallen,  sang  the  song, 
And  like  a  patient  nurse  who  would  prolong 
All  means  of  soothing,  dwelt  upon  each  tone, 
Each  look,  with  which  the  mighty  Aragon 
Marked  the  high  worth  his  royal  heart  assigned 
To  that  dear  place  he  held  in  Lisa's  mind. 
She  listened  .till  the  draughts  of  pure  content 
Through  all  her  limbs  like  some  new  being  went  — 
Life,  not  recovered,  but  untried  before, 
From  out  the  growing  world's  unmeasured  store 


160  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE   KING. 

Of  fuller,  better,  more  divinely  mixed. 

'Twas  glad  reverse  :  she  had  so  firmly  fixed 

To  die,  already  seemed  to  fall  a  veil 

Shrouding  the  inner  glow  from  light  of  senses  pale. 

Her  parents  wondering  see  her  half  arise  — 

Wondering,  rejoicing,  see  her  long  dark  eyes 

Brimful  with  clearness,  not  of  'scaping  tears, 

But  of  some  light  ethereal  that  enspheres 

Their  orbs  with  calm,  some  vision  newly  learnt 

Where  strangest  fires  erewhile  had  blindly  burnt. 

She  asked  to  have  her  soft  white  robe  and  band 

And  coral  ornaments,  and  with  her  hand 

She  gave  her  locks'  dark  length  a  backward  fall, 

Then  looked  intently  in  a  mirror  small, 

And  feared  her  face  might  perhaps  displease  the 

king ; 

"  In  truth,"  she  said,  "  I  am  a  tiny  thing  ; 
I  was  too  bold  to  tell  what  could  such  visit  bring." 

Meanwhile  the  king,  revolving  in  his  thought 
That  virgin  passion,  was  more  deeply  wrought 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  161 

To  chivalrous  pity ;  and  at  vesper  bell, 

With  careless  mien  which  hid  his  purpose  well, 

Went  forth  on  horseback,  and  as  if  by  chance 

Passing  Bernardo's  house,  he  paused  to  glance 

At  the  fine  garden  of  this  wealth}7  man, 

This  Tuscan  trader  turned  Palermitan : 

But,  presently  dismounting,  chose  to  walk 

Amid  the  trellises,  in  gracious  talk 

With  this  same  trader,  deigning  even  to  ask 

If  he  had  yet  fulfilled  the  father's  task 

Of  marrying  that  daughter  whose  young  charms 

Himself,  betwixt  the  passages  of  arms, 

Noted  admiringly.     "  Monsignor,  no, 

She  is  not  married  ;  that  were  little  woe, 

Since  she  has  counted  barely  fifteen  }Tears  ; 

But  all  such  hopes  of  late  have  turned  to  fears  ; 

She  droops  and  fades  ;    though  for  a  space  quite 

brief  — 
Scarce  three  hours  past  —  she  finds  some  strange 

relief." 

The  king  advised :  "  Twere  dole  to  all  of  us, 
The  world  should  lose  a  maid  so  beauteous  ; 
11 


162  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE   KING. 

Let  me  now  see  her  ;  since  I  am  her  liege  lord, 
Her  spirits  must  wage  war  with  death  at  my  strong 

word." 

In  such  half-serious  playfulness,  he  wends, 
With  Lisa's  father  and  two  chosen  friends, 
Up  to  the  chamber  where  she  pillowed  sits 
Watching  the  opened  door,  that  now  admits 
A  presence  as  much  better  than  her  dreams, 
As  happiness  than  any  longing  seems. 
The  king  advanced,  and,  with  a  reverent  kiss 
Upon  her  hand,  said,  "  Lady,  what  is  this? 
You,  whose  sweet  youth  should  others'  solace  be, 
Pierce  all  our  hearts,  languishing  piteously. 
We  pray  you,  for  the  love  of  us,  be  cheered, 
Nor  be  too  reckless  of  that  life,  endeared 
To  us  who  know  your  passing  worthiness, 
And  count  your  blooming  life  as  part  of  our  life's 

bliss." 

Those  words,  that  touch  upon  her  hand  from  him 
Whom  her  soul  worshipped,  as  far  seraphim 
"Worship  the  distant  gloiy,  brought  some  shame 
Quivering  upon  her  cheek,  yet  thrilled  her  frame 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE   KING.  163 

With  such  deep  joy  she  seemed  in  paradise, 
In  wondering  gladness,  and  in  dumb  surprise 
That  bliss  could  be  so  blissful :  then  she  spoke  — 
"  Signor,  I  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  yoke, 
The  golden  yoke  of  thoughts  too  great  for  me  ; 
That  was  the  ground  of  my  infirmity. 
But  now,  I  pray  your  grace  to  have  belief 
That  I  shall   soon  be  well,  nor  any   more   cause 
grief." 

The  king  alone  perceived  the  covert  sense 
Of  all  her  words,  which  made  one  evidence 
With  her  pure  voice  and  candid  loveliness, 
That  he  had  lost  much  honor,  honoring  less 
That  message  of  her  passionate  distress. 
He  staid  beside  her  for  a  little  while 
With  gentle  looks  and  speech,  until  a  smile 
As  placid  as  a  ray  of  early  morn 
On  opening  flower-cups  o'er  her  lips  was  borne. 
When  he  had  left  her,  and  the  tidings  spread 
Through  all  the  town  how  he  had  visited 
The  Tuscan  trader's  daughter,  who  was  sick, 
Men  said,  it  was  a  royal  deed  and  catholic. 


164  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 

And  Lisa  ?  she  no  longer  wished  for  death  ; 
But  as  a  poet,  who  sweet  verses  saith 
Within  his  soul,  and  joys  in  music  there, 
Nor  seeks  another  heaven,  nor  can  bear 
Disturbing  pleasures,  so  was  she  content, 
Breathing  the  life  of  grateful  sentiment. 
She  thought  no  maid  betrothed  could  be  more  blest ; 
For  treasure  must  be  valued  by  the  test 
Of  highest  excellence  and  rarity, 
And  her  dear  joy  was  best  as  best  could  be  ; 
There  seemed  no  other  crown  to  her  delight 
Now  the  high  loved  one  saw  her  love  aright. 
Thus  her  soul  thriving  on  that  exquisite  mood, 
Spread  like  the  May-time  all  its  beauteous  good 
O'er  the  soft  bloom  of  neck,  and  arms,  and  cheek, 
And  strengthened  the  sweet  body,  once  so  weak, 
Until  she  rose  and  walked,  and,  like  a  bird 
With  sweetly  rippling  throat,  she  made  her  spring 
joys  heard. 

The  king,  when  he  the  happy  change  had  seen, 
Trusted  the  ear  of  Constance,  his  fair  queen, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING.  165 

With  Lisa's  innocent  secret,  and  conferred 

How  they  should  jointly,  ~by  their  deed  and  word, 

Honor  this  maiden's  love,  which,  like  the  prayer 

Of  loyal  hermits,  never  thought  to  share 

In  what  it  gave.     The  queen  had  that  chief  grace 

Of  womanhood,  a  heart  that  can  embrace 

All  goodness  in  another  woman's  form  ; 

And  that  same  day,  ere  the  sun  lay  too  warm 

On  southern  terraces,  a  messenger 

Informed  Bernardo  that  the  royal  pair 

Would  straightway  visit  him,  and  celebrate 

Their  gladness  at  his  daughter's  happier  state, 

Which  they  were  fain  to  see.     Soon  came  the  king 

On  horseback,  with  his  barons,  heralding 

The  advent  of  the  queen  in  courtly  state  ; 

And  all,  descending  at  the  garden  gate, 

Streamed  with  their  feathers,  velvet,  and  brocade, 

Through  the  pleached  alleys,  till  they,  pausing,  made 

A  lake  of  splendor  'mid  the  aloes  gray  — 

When,  meekly  facing  all  their  proud  array, 

The  white-robed  Lisa  with  her  parents  stood, 

As  some  white  dove  before  the  gorgeous  brood 

Of  dapple-breasted  birds  born  by  the  Colchian  flood. 


166  HOW   LISA  LOVED   THE   KING. 

The  king  and  queen,  by  gracious  looks  and  speech, 

Encourage  her,  and  thus  their  courtiers  teach 

How  this  fair  morning  they  may  courtliest  be 

By  making  Lisa  pass  it  happily. 

And  soon  the  ladies  and  the  barons  all 

Draw  her  by  turns,  as  at  a  festival 

Made  for  her  sake,  to  easy,  gay  discourse, 

And  compliment  with  looks  and  smiles  enforce  ; 

A  joyous  hum  is  heard  the  gardens  round  ; 

Soon  there  is  Spanish  dancing  and  the  sound 

Of  minstrel's  song,  and  autumn  fruits  are  plucked ; 

Till  mindfully  the  king  and  queen  conduct 

Lisa  apart  to  where  a  trellised  shade 

Made  pleasant  resting.     Then  King  Pedro  said  — 

"Excellent  maiden,  that  rich  gift  of  love 

Your  heart  hath  made  us,  hath  a  worth  above 

All  royal  treasures,  nor  is  fitly  met 

Save  when  the  grateful  memory  of  deep  debt 

Lies  still  behind  the  outward  honors  done : 

And  as  a  sign  that  no  oblivion 

Shall  overflood  that  faithful  memory, 

We  while  we  live  your  cavalier  will  be, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  167 

Nor  will  we  ever  arm  ourselves  for  fight, 

Whether  for  struggle  dire  or  brief  delight 

Of  warlike  feigning,  but  we  first  will  take 

The  colors  you  ordain,  and  for  }'our  sake 

Charge  the  more  bravely  where  your  emblem  is  ; 

Nor  will  we  ever  claim  an  added  bliss 

To  our  sweet  thoughts  of  }'ou  save  one  sole  kiss. 

But  there  still  rests  the  outward  honor  meet 

To  mark  your  worthiness,  and  we  entreat 

That  you  will  turn  your  ear  to  proffered  vows 

Of  one  who  loves  you,  and  would  be  }Tour  spouse. 

We  must  not  wrong  yourself  and  Sicily 

By  letting  all  your  blooming  years  pass  by 

Unmated :  3-011  will  give  the  world  its  due 

From  beauteous  maiden  and  become  a  matron  true." 

Then  Lisa,  wrapt  in  virgin  wonderment 
At  her  ambitious  love's  complete  content, 
Which  left  no  further  good  for  her  to  seek 
Than  love's  obedience,  said  with  accent  meek  — 
"  Monsignor,  I  know  well  that  were  it  known 
To  all  the  world  how  high  my  love  had  flown, 


168  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 

There  would  be  few  who  would  not  deem  me  mad, 

Or  say  my  mind  the  falsest  image  had 

Of  my  condition  and  your  lofty  place. 

But  Heaven  has  seen  that  for  no  moment's  space 

Have  I  forgotten  you  to  be  the  king, 

Or  me  myself  to  be  a  lowly  thing  — 

A  little  ^ark,  enamoured  of  the  sky, 

That  soared  to  sing,, to  break  its  breast,  and  die. 

But,  as  you  better  know  than  I,  the  heart 

In  choosing  chooseth  not  its  own  desert, 

But  that  great  merit  which  attracteth  it ; 

'Tis  law,  I  struggled,  but  I  must  submit, 

And  having  seen  a  worth  all  worth  above, 

I  loved  you,  love  you,  and  shall  always  love. 

But  that  doth  mean,  my  will  is  ever  yours, 

Not  only  when  your  will  my  good  insures, 

But  if  it  wrought  me  what  the  world  calls  narm  — 

Fire,  wounds,  would  wear  from  your  dear  will   a 

charm. 

That  you  will  be  my  knight  is  full  content, 
And  for  that  kiss  —  I  pray,  first  for   the  queen's 

consent." 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE   KING.  169 

Her  answer,  given  with  such  firm  gentleness, 
Pleased  the  queen  well,  and  made  her  hold  no  less 
Of  Lisa's  merit  than  the  king  had  held. 
And  so,  all  cloudy  threats  of  grief  dispelled, 
There  was  betrothal  made  that  very  morn 
'Twixt  Perdicone,  youthful,  brave,  well-born, 
And  Lisa,  whom  he  loved  ;  she  loving  well 
The  lot  that  from  obedience  befell. 
The  queen  a  rare  betrothal  ring  on  each 
Bestowed,  and  other  gems,  with  gracious  speech. 
And  that  no  joy  might  lack,  the  king,  who  knew 
The  youth  was  poor,  gave  him  rich  Ceffalu 
And  Cataletta,  large  and  fruitful  lands  — 
Adding  much  promise  when  he  joined  their  hands. 
At  last  he  said  to  Lisa,  with  an  air 
Gallant  yet  noble  :  "  Now  we  claim  our  share 
From  your  sweet  love,  a  share  which  is  not  small : 
For  in  the  sacrament  one  crumb  is  all." 
Then  taking  her  small  face  his  hands  between, 
He  kissed  her  on  the  brow  with  kiss  serene, 
Fit  seal  to  that  pure  vision  her  young  soul  had 
seen. 


170  HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING. 

Sicilians  witnessed  that  King  Pedro  kept 
His  royal  promise  :  Perdicone  stept 
To  many  honors  honorably  won, 
Living  with  Lisa  in  true  union. 
Throughout  his  life  the  king  still  took  delight 
To  call  himself  fair  Lisa's  faithful  knight ; 
And  never  wore  in  field  or  tournament 
A  scarf  or  emblem  save  by  Lisa  sent. 

Such  deeds  made  subjects  loyal  in  that  land : 

They  joyed  that  one  so  worthy  to  command, 

So  chivalrous  and  gentle,  had  become 

The  king  of  Sicily,  and  filled  the  room 

Of  Frenchmen,  who  abused  the  Church's  trust, 

Till,  in  a  righteous  vengeance  on  their  lust, 

Messina  rose,  with  God,  and  with  the  dagger's  thrust. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED   THE  KING.  171 

i 

L'ENVOI. 

Reader,  this  story  pleased  me  long  ago 
In  the  bright  pages  of  Boccaccio, 
And  where  the  author  of  a  good  we  know, 
Let  us  not  fail  to  pay  the  grateful  thanks  we  owe. 
1869. 


A    MINOR    PROPHET. 


173 


A  MINOR  PROPHET. 


I  HAVE  a  friend,  a  vegetarian  seer, 

By  name  Elias  Baptist  Butterworth, 

A  harmless,  bland,  disinterested  man, 

Whose  ancestors  in  Cromwell's  day  believed 

The  Second  Advent  certain  in  five  years. 

But  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came  instead, 

Revised  their  date  and  sought  another  world : 

I  mean  —  not  heaven  but  —  America. 

A  fervid  stock,  whose  generous  hope  embraced 

The  fortunes  of  mankind,  not  stopping  short 

At  rise  of  leather,  or  the  fall  of  gold, 

Nor  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  time 

As  housewives  listen  to  a  cackling  hen, 

With  wonder  whether  she  has  laid  her  egg 

175 


176  A  MINOE   PROPHET. 

On  their  own  nest-egg.     Still  they  did  insist 
Somewhat  too  wearisomety  on  the  joys 
Of  their  Millennium,  when  coats  and  hats 
Would  all  be  of  one  pattern,  books  and  songs 
All  fit  for  Sundays,  and  the  casual  talk 
As  good  as  sermons  preached  extempore. 

And  in  Elias  the  ancestral  zeal 

Breathes  strong  as  ever,  only  modified 

By  Transatlantic  air  and  modern  thought. 

You  could  not  pass  him  in  the  street  and  fail 

To  note  his  shoulders'  long  declivity, 

Beard  to  the  waist,  swan-neck,  and  large  pale  eyes ; 

Or,  when  he  lifts  his  hat,  to  mark  his  hair 

Brushed  back  to  show  his  great  capacity  — 

A  full  grain's  length  at  the  angle  of  the  brow 

Proving  him  witty,  while  the  shallower  men 

Only  seem  witty  in  their  repartees. 

Not  that  he's  vain,  but  that  his  doctrine  needs 

The  testimony  of  his  frontal  lobe. 

On  all  points  he  adopts  the  latest  views  ; 

Takes  for  the  key  of  universal  Mind 


A  MINOR   PROPHET.  177 

The  "  levitation"  of  stout  gentlemen  ; 

Believes  the  Rappings  are  not  spirits'  work, 

But  the  Thought-atmosphere's,  a  steam  of  brains 

In  correlated  force  of  raps,  as  proved 

By  motion,  heat,  and  science  generally  ; 

The  spectrum,  for  example,  which  has  shown 

The  selfsame  metals  in  the  sun  as  here  ; 

So  the  Thought-atmosphere  is  everywhere  : 

High  truths  that  glimmered  under  other  names 

To  ancient  sages,  whence  good  scholarship 

Applied  to  Eleusinian  mj'steries  — 

The  Vedas  —  Tripitaka  —  Vendidad  - 

Might  furnish  weaker  proof  for  weaker  minds 

That  Thought  was  rapping  in  the  hoary  past, 

And  might  have  edified  the  Greeks  by  raps 

At  the  greater  Dionysia,  if  their  ears 

Had  not  been  filled  with  Sophoclean  verse. 

And  when  all  Earth  is  vegetarian  — 

When,  lacking  butchers,  quadrupeds  die  out, 

And  less  Thought-atmosphere  is  re-absorbed 

By  nerves  of  insects  parasitical, 

Those  higher  truths,  seized  now  by  higher  minds 


178  A  MINOR   PROPHET. 

But  not  expressed  (the  insects  hindering) 

Will  either  flash  out  into  eloquence, 

Or  better  still,  be  comprehensible 

By  rappings  simply,  without  need  of  roots. 

'Tis  on  this  theme  —  the  vegetarian  world  — 

That  good  Elias  willingly  expands  : 

He  loves  to  tell  in  mildly  nasal  tones 

And  vowels  stretched  to  suit  the  widest  views, 

The  future  fortunes  of  our  infant  Earth  — 

When  it  will  be  too  full  of  human  kind 

To  have  the  room  for  wilder  animals. 

Saith  he,  Sahara  will  be  populous 

With  families  of  gentlemen  retired 

From  commerce  in  more  Central  Africa, 

Who  order  coolness  as  we  order  coal, 

And  have  a  lobe  anterior  strong  enougn 

To  think  away  the  sand-storms.     Science  thus 

Will  leave  no  spot  on  this  terraqueous  globe 

Unfit  to  be  inhabited  by  man, 

The  chief  of  animals  :  all  meaner  brutes 

Will  have  been  smoked  and  elbowed  out  of  life. 


A  MINOR   PROPHET.  179 

No  lions  then  shall  lap  Caffrarian  pools, 

Or  shake  the  Atlas  with  their  midnight  roar : 

Even  the  slow,  slime-loving  crocodile, 

The  last  of  animals  to  take  a  hint, 

Will  then  retire  forever  from  a  scene 

Where  public  feeling  strongly  sets  against  him. 

Fishes  ma}r  lead  carnivorous  lives  obscure, 

But  must  not  dream  of  culinary  rank 

Or  being  dished  in  good  society. 

Imagination  in  that  distant  age, 

Aiming  at  fiction  called  historical, 

Will  vainly  try  to  reconstruct  the  times 

When  it  was  men's  preposterous  delight 

To  sit  astride  live  horses,  which  consumed 

Materials  for  incalculable  cakes  ; 

When  there  were  milkmaids  who  drew  milk  from 

cows 

With  udders  kept  abnormal  for  that  end 
Since  the  rude  nrythopceic  period 
Of  Aryan  dairymen,  who  did  not  blush 
To  call  their  milkmaid  and  their  daughter  one  — 
Helplessly  gazing  at  the  Milky  Way, 


180  A   MINOR   PROPHET. 

Nor  dreaming  of  the  astral  cocoanuts 

Quite  at  the  service  of  posterity. 

Tis  to  be  feared,  though,  that  the  duller  boys, 

Much  given  to  anachronisms  and  nuts, 

(Elias  has  confessed  boys  will  be  boys) 

May  write  a  jockey  for  a  centaur,  think 

Europa's  suitor  was  an  Irish  bull, 

JEsop  a  journalist  who  wrote  up  Fox, 

And  Bruin  a  chief  swindler  upon  'Change. 

Boys  will  be  boys,  but  dogs  will  all  be  moral, 

With  longer  alimentary  canals 

Suited  to  diet  vegetarian. 

The  uglier  breeds  will  fade  from  memory, 

Or,  being  paleontological, 

Live  but  as  portraits  in  large  learned  books, 

Distasteful  to  the  feelings  of  an  age 

Nourished  on  purest  beauty.     Earth  will  hold 

No  stupid  brutes,  no  cheerful  queernesses, 

No  naive  cunning,  grave  absurdity. 

Wart-pigs  with  tender  and  parental  grunts, 

Wombats  much  flattened  as  to  their  contour, 

Perhaps  from  too  much  crushing  in  the  ark, 


A  MINOB   PROPHET.  181 

But  taking  meekly  that  fatality  ; 

The  serious  cranes,  unstung  by  ridicule  ; 

Long-headed,  short-legged,  solemn-looking  curs, 

(Wise,  silent  critics  of  a  flippant  age)  ; 

The  silly  straddling  foals,  the  weak-brained  geese 

Hissing  fallaciously  at  sound  of  wheels  — 

All  these  rude  products  will  have  disappeared 

Along  with  every  faulty  human  type. 

By  dint  of  diet  vegetarian 

All  will  be  harmony  of  hue  and  line, 

Bodies  and  minds  all  perfect,  limbs  well-turned, 

And  talk  quite  free  from  aught  erroneous. 

Thus  far  Elias  in  his  seer's  mantle  : 

But  at  this  climax  in  his  prophecy 

My  sinking  spirits,  fearing  to  be  swamped, 

Urge  me   to   speak.     "High  prospects,  these  my 

friend, 

Setting  the  weak  carnivorous  brain  astretch ; 
We  will  resume  the  thread  another  day." 
"  To-morrow,"  cries  Elias,  "  at  this  hour?" 
"  No,  not  to-morrow  —  I  shall  have  a  cold  — 


182  A  MINOE,  PROPHET. 

At  least  I  feel  some  soreness  —  this  endemic  — 
Good-by." 

No  tears  are  sadder  than  the  smile 
With  which  I  quit  Elias.     Bitterly 
I  feel  that  every  change  upon  this  earth 
Is  bought  with  sacrifice.     My  yearnings  fail 
To  reach  that  high  apocalyptic  mount 
Which  shows  in  bird's-eye  view  a  perfect  world, 
Or  enter  warmly  into  other  joys 
Than  those  of  faulty,  struggling  human  kind. 
That  strain  upon  my  soul's  too  feeble  wing 
Ends  in  ignoble  floundering  :  I  fall 
Into  short-sighted  pity  for  the  men 
Who  living  in  those  perfect  future  times 
Will  not  know  half  the  dear  imperfect  things 
That  move  my  smiles  and  tears  —  will  never  know 
The  fine  old  incongruities  that  raise 
My  friendly  laugh  ;  the  innocent  conceits 
That  like  a  needless  eyeglass  or  black  patch 
Give  those  who  wear  them  harmless  happiness  ; 
The  twists  and  cracks  in  our  poor  earthenware, 
That  touch  me  to  more  conscious  fellowship 


A  MINOB   PROPHET.  183 

(I  am  not  myself  the  finest  Parian) 

With  my  coevals.     So  poor  Colin  Clout, 

To  whom  raw  onion  gives  prospective  zest, 

Consoling  hours  of  dampest  wintry  work, 

Could  hardly  fancy  any  regal  jo}rs 

Quite  unimpregnate  with  the  onion's  scent : 

Perhaps  his  highest  hopes  are  not  all  clear 

Of  waftings  from  that  energetic  bulb  : 

Tis  well  that  onion  is  not  heresy. 

Speaking  in  parable,  I  am  Colin  Clout. 

A  clinging  flavor  penetrates  my  life  — 

My  onion  is  imperfectness  :  I  cleave 

To  nature's  blunders,  evanescent  types 

Which  sages  banish  from  Utopia. 

"  Not  worship  beauty?  "  say  you.    Patience,  friend  ! 

I  worship  in  the  temple  with  the  rest ; 

But  by  my  hearth  I  keep  a  sacred  nook 

For  gnomes  and  dwarfs,  duck-footed  waddling  elves 

Who  stitched  and  hammered  for  the  weary  man 

In  days  of  old.     And  in  that  piety 

I  clothe  ungainly  forms  inherited 

From  toiling  generations,  daily  bent 


184  A  MINOR   PROPHET. 

At  desk,  or  plough,  or  loom,  or  in  the  mine, 
In  pioneering  labors  for  the  world. 
Nay,  I  am  apt  when  floundering  confused 
From  too  rash  flight,  to  grasp  at  paradox, 
And  pity  future  men  who  will  not  know 
A  keen  experience  with  pity  blent, 
The  pathos  exquisite  of  lovely  minds 
Hid  in  harsh  forms  —  not  penetrating  them 
Like  fire  divine  within  a  common  bush 
"Which  glows  transfigured  by  the  heavenly  guest, 
So  that  men  put  their  shoes  off  ;  but  incaged 
Like  a  sweet  child  within  some  thick- walled  cell, 
Who  leaps  and  fails  to  hold  the  window-bars, 
But  having  shown  a  little  dimpled  hand 
Is  visited  thenceforth  by  tender  hearts 
Whose  eyes  keep  watch  about  the  prison  walls. 
A  foolish,  nay,  a  wicked  paradox  ! 
For  purest  pity  is  the  eye  of  love 
Melting  at  sight  of  sorrow  ;  and  to  grieve 
Because  it  sees  no  sorrow,  shows  a  love 
Warped  from  its  truer  nature,  turned  to  love 
Of  merest  habit,  like  the  miser's  greed. 


A  MINOR  PROPHET.  185 

But  I  am  Colin  still :  rny  prejudice 
Is  for  the  flavor  of  my  daily  food. 
Not  that  I  doubt  the  world  is  growing  still 
As  once  it  grew  from  Chaos  and  from  Night ; 
Or  have  a  soul  too  shrunken  for  the  hope 
Which  dawned  in  human  breasts,  a  double  morn, 
With  earliest  watchings  of  the  rising  light 
Chasing  the  darkness  ;  and  through  many  an  age 
Has  raised  the  vision  of  a  future  time 
That  stands  an  Angel  with  a  face  all  mild 
Spearing  the  demon.     I  too  rest  in  faith 
That  man's  perfection  is  the  crowning  flower, 
Toward  which  the  urgent  sap  in  life's  great  tree 
Is  pressing,  —  seen  in  puny  blossoms  now, 
But  in  the  world's  great  morrows  to  expand 
With  broadest  petal  and  with  deepest  glow. 

Yet,  see  the  patched  and  plodding  citizen 
Waiting  upon  the  pavement  with  the  throng 
While  some  victorious  world-hero  makes 
Triumphal  entry,  and  the  peal  of  shouts 
And  flash  of  faces  'neath  uplifted  hats 


186  A  MINOR   PEOPHET. 

Run  like  a  storm  of  joy  along  the  streets  ! 

He  says,  "  God  bless  him !  "  almost  with  a  sob, 

As  the  great  hero  passes  ;  he  is  glad 

The  world  holds  might}7  men  and  mighty  deeds  ; 

The  music  stirs  his  pulses  like  strong  wine, 

The  moving  splendor  touches  him  with  awe  — 

'Tis  glory  shed  around  the  common  weal, 

And  he  will  pay  his  tribute  willingly, 

Though  with  the  pennies  earned  by  sordid  toil. 

Perhaps  the  hero's  deeds  have  helped  to  bring 

A  time  when  every  honest  citizen 

Shall  wear  a  coat  unpatched.     And  yet  he  feels 

More  easy  fellowship  with  neighbors  there 

Who  look  on  too  ;  and  he  will  soon  relapse 

From  noticing  the  banners  and  the  steeds 

To  think  with  pleasure  there  is  just  one  bun 

Left  in  his  pocket,  that  may  serve  to  tempt 

The  wide-eyed  lad,  whose  weight  is  all  too  much 

For  that  3roung  mother's  arms  :  and  then  he  falls 

To  dreamy  picturing  of  sunny  days 

When  he  himself  was  a  small  big-cheeked  lad 

In  some  far  village  where  no  heroes  came, 


A  MINOR   PROPHET.  187 

And  stood  a  listener  'twixt  his  father's  legs 

In  the  warm  fire-light,  while  the  old  folk  talked 

And  shook  their  heads  and  looked  upon  the  floor ; 

And  he  was  puzzled,  thinking  life  was  fine  — 

The  bread  and  cheese  so  nice  all  through  the  year, 

And  Christmas  sure  to  come.     O  that  good  time ! 

He,  could  he  choose,  would  have  those  days  again, 

And  see  the  dear  old-fashioned  things  once  more. 

But  soon  the  wheels  and  drums  have  all  passed  by, 

And  tramping  feet  are  heard  like  sudden  rain : 

The  quiet  startles  our  good  citizen  ; 

He  feels  the  child  upon  his  arms,  and  knows 

He  is  with  the  people  making  holiday 

Because  of  hopes  for  better  days  to  come. 

But  Hope  to  him  was  like  the  brilliant  west 

Telling  of  sunrise  in  a  world  unknown, 

And  from  that  dazzling  curtain  of  bright  hues 

He  turned  to  the  familiar  face  of  fields 

Lying  all  clear  in  the  calm  morning  land. 

Maybe  'tis  wiser  not  to  fix  a  lens 

Too  scrutinizing  on  the  glorious  times 

When  Barbarossa  shall  arise  and  shake 


188  A  MINOR   PROPHET. 

His  mountain,  good  King  Arthur  come  again, 

And  all  the  heroes  of  such  giant  soul 

That,  living  once  to  cheer  mankind  with  hope, 

They  had  to  sleep  until  the  time  was  ripe 

For  greater  deeds  to  match  their  greater  thought. 

Yet  no  !  the  earth  yields  nothing  more  Divine 

Than  high  prophetic  vision  —  than  the  Seer 

Who  fasting  from  man's  meaner  joy  beholds 

The  paths  of  beauteous  order,  and  constructs 

A  fairer  type,  to  shame  our  low  content. 

But  prophecy  is  like  potential  sound 

Which  turned  to  music  seems  a  voice  sublime 

From  out  the  soul  of  light ;  but  turns  to  noise 

In  scrannel  pipes,  and  makes  all  ears  averse. 

*. 

The  faith  that  life  on  earth  is  being  shaped 
To  glorious  ends,  that  order,  justice,  love 
Mean  man's  completeness,  mean  effect  as  sure 
As  roundness  in  the  dew-drop  —  that  great  faith 
Is  but  the  rushing  and  expanding  stream 
Of  thought,  of  feeling,  fed  by  all  the  past. 
Our  finest  hope  is  finest  memory, 


A  MINOR   PROPHET.  189 

As  they  who  love  in  age  think  youth  is  blest 

Because  it  has  a  life  to  fill  with  love 

Full  souls  are  double  mirrors,  making  still 

An  endless  vista  of  fair  things  before 

Repeating  things  behind  :  so  faith  is  strong 

Only  when  we  are  strong,  shrinks  when  we  shrink. 

It  comes  when  music  stirs  us,  and  the  chords 

Moving  on  some  grand  climax  shake  our  souls 

With  influx  new  that  makes  new  energies. 

It  comes  in  swellings  of  the  heart  and  tears 

That  rise  at  noble  and  at  gentle  deeds  — 

At  labors  of  the  master-artist's  hand, 

Which,  trembling,  touches  to  a  finer  end, 

Trembling  before  an  image  seen  within. 

It  comes  in  moments  of  heroic  love, 

Unjealous  joy  in  joy  not  made  for  us  — 

In  conscious  triumph  of  the  good  within 

Making  us  worship  goodness  that  rebukes. 

Even  our  failures  are  a  prophecy, 

Even  our  yearnings  and  our  bitter  tears 

After  that  fair  and  true  we  cannot  grasp  ; 

As  patriots  who  seem  to  die  in  vain 

Make  liberty  more  sacred  by  their  pangs. 


190  A  MINOR   PROPHET. 

Presentiment  of  better  things  on  earth 
Sweeps  in  with  every  force  that  stirs  our  souls 
To  admiration,  self-renouncing  love, 
Or  thoughts,  like  light,  that  bind  the  world  in  one 
Sweeps  like  the  sense  of  vastness,  when  at  night 
We  hear  the  roll  and  dash  of  waves  that  break 
Nearer  and  nearer  with  the  rushing  tide, 
Which  rises  to  the  level  of  the  cliff 
Because  the  wide  Atlantic  rolls  behind 
Throbbing  respondent  to  the  far-off  orbs. 
1865. 


BROTHER    AND    SISTER. 


191 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER. 


I  CANNOT  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee's  swinging  chime, 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

He  was  the  elder  and  a  little  man 
Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 
And  I  the  girl  that  puppy-like  now  ran, 
Now  lagged  behind  my  brother's  larger  tread. 

I  held  him  wise,  and  when  he  talked  to  me 
Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 
I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boundary 
Where  men  grew  blind,  though  angels  knew  the  rest. 

If  he  said,  ' '  Hush  !  "  I  tried  to  hold  my  breath  ; 
Wherever  he  said,  "  Come  !  "  I  stepped  in  faith. 

193 


194  BROTHER  AND   SISTER, 


n. 


Long  years  have  left  their  writing  on  my  brow, 
But  yet  the  freshness  and  the  dew-fed  beam 
Of  those  young  mornings  are  about  me  now, 
When  we  two  wandered  toward  the  far-off  stream 

With  rod  and  line.     Our  basket  held  a  store 
Baked  for  us  only,  and  I  thought  with  joy 
That  I  should  have  my  share,  though  he  had  more, 
Because  he  was  the  elder  and  a  boy. 

The  firmaments  of  daisies  since  to  me 
Have  had  those  mornings  in  their  opening  eyes, 
The  bunched  cowslip's  pale  transparency 
Carries  that  sunshine  of  sweet  memories, 

And  wild-rose  branches  take  their  finest  scent 
From  those  blest  hours  of  infantine  content. 


BBOTHEK   AND   SISTER.  195 


III, 


Our  mother  bade  us  keep  the  trodden  ways, 
Stroked  down  my  tippet,  set  my  brother's  frill, 
Then  with  the  benediction  of  her  gaze 
Clung  to  us  lessening,  and  pursued  us  still 

Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms, 
Whose  tall  old  trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound, 
So  rich  for  us,  we  counted  them  as  realms 
With  varied  products  :  here  were  earth-nuts  found, 

And  here  the  Lad3r-fingers  in  deep  shade ; 
Here  sloping  toward  the  Moat  the  rushes  grew, 
The  large  to  split  for  pith,  the  small  to  braid  ; 
While  over  all  the  dark  rooks  cawing  new, 

And  made  a  happy  strange  solemnity, 

A  deep-toned  chant  from  life  unknown  to  me. 

13 


196  BKOTHEK  AND   SISTER. 


rv, 


Our  meadow-path  had  memorable  spots  : 
One  where  it  bridged  a  tiny  rivulet, 
Deep  hid  by  tangled  blue  Forget-me-nots  ; 
And  all  along  the  waving  grasses  met 

My  little  palm,  or  nodded  to  my  cheek, 
When  flowers  with  upturned  faces  gazing  drew 
My  wonder  downward,  seeming  all  to  speak 
With  eyes  of  souls  that  dumbly  heard  and  knew. 

Then  came   the   copse,  where    wild   things  rushed 

unseen, 

And  black-scathed  grass  betraj'ed  the  past  abode 
Of  mystic  g}^psies,  who  still  lurked  between 
Me  and  each  hidden  distance  of  the  road. 

A  gypsy  once  had  startled  me  at  play, 
Blotting  with  her  dark  smile  my  sunny  day. 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER.  197 


Thus  rambling  we  were  schooled  in  deepest  lore, 
And  learned  the  meanings  that  give  words  a  soul, 
The  fear,  the  love,  the  primal  passionate  store, 
Whose  shaping  impulses  make  manhood  whole. 

Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good ; 
My  infant  gladness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch, 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 
To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 

For  who  in  age  shall  roam  the  earth,  and  find 
Reasons  for  loving  that  will  strike  out  love 
With  sudden  rod  from  the  hard  year-pressed  mind  ? 
Were  reasons  sown  as  thick  as  stars  above, 

'Tis  love  must  see  them,  as  the  eye  sees  light : 
Day  is  but  Number  to  the  darkened  sight. 


198  BROTHER  AND   SISTER. 


VI. 


Our  brown  canal  was  endless  to  my  thought ; 
And  on  its  banks  I  sat  in  dreamy  peace, 
Unknowing  how  the  good  I  loved  was  wrought, 
Untroubled  by  the  fear  that  it  would  cease. 

Slowly  the  barges  floated  into  view 
Rounding  a  grassy  hill  to  me  sublime 
With  some  Unknown  beyond  it,  whither  flew 
The  parting  cuckoo  toward  a  fresh  spring  time. 

The  wide-arched  bridge,  the  scented  elder-flowers. 
The  wondrous  wate^  rings  that  died  too  soon, 
The  echoes  of  the  quarry,  the  still  hours 
With  white  robe  sweeping  on  the  shadeless  noon, 

Were  but  my  growing  self,  are  part  of  me, 
My  present  Past,  my  root  of  piety. 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER.  199 


vn. 


Those  long  days  measured  by  my  little  feet 
Had  chronicles  which  yield  me  many  a  text ; 
Where  irony  still  finds  an  image  meet 
Of  full-grown  judgments  in  this  world  perplext. 

One  day  my  brother  left  me  in  high  charge, 
To  mind  the  rod,  while  he  went  seeking  bait, 
And  bade  me,  when  I  saw  a  nearing  barge, 
Snatch  out  the  line,  lest  he  should  come  too  late. 

Proud  of  the  task,  I  watched  with  all  my  might 
For  one  whole  minute,  till  my  eyes  grew  wide, 
Till  sky  and  earth  took  on  a  strange  new  light 
And  seemed  a  dream-world  floating  on  some  tide 

A  fair  pavilioned  boat  for  me  alone 

Bearing  me  onward  through  the  vast  unknown. 


200  BROTHER   AND   SISTER. 


VIII. 

But  sudden  came  the  barge's  pitch-black  prow, 
Nearer  and  angrier  came  my  brother's  cry, 
And  all  my  soul  was  quivering  fear,  when  lo ! 
Upon  the  imperilled  line,  suspended  high, 

A  silver  perch  !     My  guilt  that  won  the  prey, 
Now  turned  to  merit,  had  a  guerdon  rich 
Of  songs  and  praises,  and  made  merry  play, 
Until  my  triumph  reached  its  highest  pitch 

When  all  at  home  were  told  the  wondrous  feat, 
And  how  the  little  sister  had  fished  well. 
In  secret,  though  my  fortune  tasted  sweet,, 
I  wondered  why  this  happiness  befell. 

"  The  little  lass  had  luck,"  the  gardener  said 
And  so  I  learned,  luck  was  with  glory  wed. 


BROTHER   AND  SISTER.  201 


ES. 


We  had  the  selfsame  world  enlarged  for  each 
By  loving  difference  of  girl  and  boy : 
The  fruit  that  hung  on  high  beyond  my  reach 
He  plucked  for  me,  and  oft  he  must  employ 

A  measuring  glance  to  guide  my  tiny  shoe 
Where  lay  firm  stepping-stones,  or  call  to  mind 
"  This  thing  I  like  my  sister  may  not  do, 
For  she  is  little,  and  I  must  be  kind." 

Thus  boyish  Will  the  nobler  mastery  learned 
Where  inward  vision  over  impulse  reigns, 
Widening  its  life  with  separate  life  discerned, 
A  Like  unlike,  a  Self  that  self  restrains. 

His  years  with  others  must  the  sweeter  be 
For  those  brief  days  he  spent  in  loving  me.  - 


202  BROTHER   AND   SISTER. 


X. 


His  sorrow  was  my  sorrow,  and  his  joy 
Sent  little  leaps  and  laughs  through  all  my  frame ; 
My  doll  seemed  lifeless  and  no  girlish  toy 
Had  any  reason  when  my  brother  came. 

I  knelt  with  him  at  marbles,  marked  his  fling 
Cut  the  ringed  stem  and  make  the  apple  drop, 
Or  watched  him  winding  close  the  spiral  string 
That  looped  the  orbits  of  the  humming  top. 

Grasped  by  such  fellowship  my  vagrant  thought 
Ceased  with  dream-fruit  dream-wishes  to  fulfil ;. 
My  aery-picturing  fantasy  was  taught 
Subjection  to  the  harder,  truer  skill 

That  seeks  with  deeds  to  grave  a  thought-tracuea 

line, 
And  by  "  What  is,"   "  What  will  be  "  to  define. 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER.  203 


XI. 


School  parted  us  ;  we  never  found  again 
That  childish  world  where  our  two  spirits  mingled 
Like  scents  from  varying  roses  that  remain 
One  sweetness,  nor  can  evermore  be  singled. 

Yet  the  twin  habit  of  that  early  time 
Lingered  for  long  about  the  heart  and  tongue : 
We  had  been  natives  of  one  happy  clime 
And  its  dear  accent  to  our  utterance  clung. 

Till  the  dire  years  whose  awful  name  is  Change 
Had  grasped  our  souls  still  yearning  in  divorce, 
And  pitiless  shaped  them  in  two  forms  that  range 
Two  elements  which  sever  their  life's  course. 

But  were  another  childhood- world  my  share, 
I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there. 
1869. 


STRADIVARIUS. 


205 


STRADIVARIUS. 


YOUR  soul  was  lifted  by  the  wings  to-day 

Hearing  the  master  of  the  violin  : 

You  praised  him,  praised  the  great  Sebastian  too 

Who  made  that  fine  Chaconne  ;  but  did  3-011  think 

Of  old  Antonio  Stradivari  ?  —  him 

Who  a  good  centmy  and  half  ago 

Put  his  true  work  in  that  brown  instrument, 

And  by  the  nice  adjustment  of  its  frame 

Gave  it  responsive  life,  continuous 

With  the  master's  finger-tips  and  perfected 

Like  them  by  delicate  rectitude  of  use. 

Not  Bach  alone,  helped  by  fine  precedent 

Of  genius  gone  before,  nor  Joachim 

Who  holds  the  strain  afresh  incorporate 

207 


208  STKADIVARIUS. 

By  inward  hearing  and  notation  strict 

Of  nerve  and  muscle,  made  our  joy  to-day : 

Another  soul  was  living  in  the  air, 

And  swaying  it  to  true  deliverance 

Of  high  invention  and  responsive  skill :  — 

That  plain  white-aproned  man  who  stood  at  work 

Patient  and  accurate  full  fourscore  years, 

Cherished  his  sight  and  touch  by  temperance, 

And  since  keen  sense  is  love  of  perfectness 

Made  perfect  violins,  the  needed  paths 

For  inspiration  and  high  mastery. 

No  simpler  man  than  he  :  he  never  cried, 
"  Why  was  I  born  to  this  monotonous  task 
Of  making  violins  ? "  or  flung  them  down 
To  suit  with  hurling  act  a  well-hurled  curse 
At  labor  on  such  perishable  stuff. 
Hence  neighbors  in  Cremona  held  him  dull, 
Called  him  a  slave,  a  mill-horse,  a  machine, 
Begged  him  to  tell  his  motives,  or  to  lend 
A  few  gold-pieces  to  a  loftier  mind. 
Yet  he  had  pithy  words  full  fed  by  fact ; 


STRADIVARIUS.  209 

For  Fact,  well-trusted,  reasons  and  persuades, 

Is  gnomic,  cutting,  or  ironical, 

Draws  tears,  or  is  a  tocsin  to  arouse  — 

Can  hold  all  figures  of  the  orator 

In  one  plain  sentence  ;  has  her  pauses  too  — 

Eloquent  silence  at  the  chasm  abrupt 

Where  knowledge  ceases.     Thus  Antonio 

Made  answers  as  Fact  willed,  and  made  them  strong. 

Naldo,  a  painter  of  eclectic  school, 
Taking  his  dicers,  candlelight  and  grins 
From  Caravaggio,  and  in  holier  groups 
Combining  Flemish  flesh  with  martyrdom  — 
Knowing  all  tricks  of  style  at  thirty-one, 
And  weary  of  them,  while  Antonio 
At  sixty-nine  wrought  placidly  his  best 
Making  the  violin  you  heard  to-day  — 
Naldo  would  tease  him  oft  to  tell  his  aims, 

' '  Perhaps  thou  hast  some  pleasant  vice  to  feed  — 
The  love  of  louis  d'ors  in  heaps  of  four, 
Each  violin  a  heap  —  I've  nought  to  blame  ; 
H 


210  STBADIYARniS. 

My  vices  waste  such  heaps.     But  then,  why  work 

With  painful  nicety  ?     Since  fame  once  earned 

By  luck  or  merit — bftenest  by  luck  — 

(Else  why  do  I  put  Bonifazio's  name 

To  work  that  '  pinxit  Naldo '  would  not  sell  ?) 

Is  welcome  index  to  the  wealthy  mob 

Where  they  should  pay  their  gold,  and  where  they 

pay 

There  they  find  merit  —  take  jrour  tow  for  flax, 
And  hold  the  flax  unlabelled  with  your  name, 
Too  coarse  for  sufferance." 

Antonio  then : 

"  I  like  the  gold  —  well,  yes  —  but  not  for  meals. 
And  as  my  stomach,  so  m}T  eye  and  hand, 
And  inward  sense  that  works  along  with  both, 
Have  hunger  that  can  never  feed  on  coin. 
Who  draws  a  line  and  satisfies  his  soul, 
Making  it  crooked  where  it  should  be  straight? 
An  idiot  with  an  oyster-shell  may  draw 
His  lines  along  the  sand,  all  wavering, 
Fixing  no  point  or  pathway  to  a  point ; 
An  idiot  one  remove  may  choose  his  line, 


STEADIVAEIUS.  211 

Straggle  and  be  content ;  but  God  be  praised, 

Antonio  Stradivari  has  an  eye 

That  winces  at  false  work,  and  loves  the  true, 

With  hand  and  arm  that  play  upon  the  tool 

As  willingly  as  any  singing  bird 

Sets  him  to  sing  his  morning  roundelay, 

Because  he  likes  to  sing  and  likes  the  song." 

Then  Naldo  :  "  'Tis  a  petty  kind  of  fame 
At  best,  that  comes  of  making  violins  ; 
And  saves  no  masses,  either.     Thou  wilt  go 
To  purgatory  none  the  less." 

But  he  : 

"  'Twere  purgatory  here  to  make  them  ill ; 
And  for  my  fame  —  when  any  master  holds, 
'Twixt  chin  and  hand  a  violin  of  mine, 
He  will  be  glad  that  Stradivari  lived, 
Made  violins,  and  made  them  of  the  best. 
The  masters  only  know  whose  work  is  good  : 
They  will  choose  mine,  and  while  God  gives  them  skill 
I  give  them  instruments  to  play  upon, 
God  choosing  me  to  help  Him." 


I  %  . .  n  l  b 

212  ' :,  /   STE  ADIV  ARIUS . 

"What!  were  God 
At  fault  for  violins,  thou  absent?" 

"Yes; 
He  were  at  fault  for  Stradivari's  work." 

"  Why,  many  hold  Giuseppe's  violins 
As  good  as  thine." 

' '  May  be  :  they  are  different. 
His  quality  declines  :  he  spoils  his  hand 
With  over-drinking.     But  were  his  the  best, 
He  could  not  work  for  two.     My  work  is  mine, 
And,  heresy  or  not,  if  my  hand  slacked, 
I  should  rob  God  —  since  He  is  fullest  good — 
Leaving  a  blank  instead  of  violins. 
I  say,  not  God  Himself  can  make  man's  best 
Without  best  men  to  help  Him.     I  am  one  best 
Here  in  Cremona,  using  sunlight  well 
To  fashion  finest  maple  till  it  serves 
More  cunningly  than  throats,  for  harmony. 
'Tis  rare  delight :  I  would  not  change  my  skill 
To  be  the  Emperor  with  bungling  hands, 
And  lose  my  work,  which  comes  as  natural 
As  self  at  waking." 


STKADIVAEIUS. 


218  • 


"  Thou  art  little 
Than  a  deft  potter's  wheel,  Antonio ; 
Turning  out  work  by  mere  necessity 
And  lack  of  varied  function.     Higher  arts 
Subsist  on  freedom  —  eccentricity  — 
Uncounted  inspirations  —  influence 
That  comes  with  drinking,  gambling,  talk   turned 

wild, 

Then  moody  misery  and  lack  of  food  — 
With  every  dithyrambic  fine  excess  : 
These  make  at  last  a  storm  which  flashes  out 
In  lighting  revelations.     Steady  work 
-Turns  genius  to  a  loom  ;  the  soul  must  lie 
Like  grapes  beneath  the  sun  till  ripeness  comes 
And  mellow  vintage.     I  could  paint  }'ou  now 
The  finest  Crucifixion  ;  yesternight 
Returning  home  I  saw  it  on  a  sky 
Blue-black,  thick-starred.     I  want  two  louis  d'ors 
To  buy  the  canvas  and  the' costly  blues  — 
Trust  me  a  fortnight." 

' '  Where  are  those  last  two 
I  lent  thee  for  thy  Judith  ?  — her  thou  saw'st 


214  STRADIVAKIUS. 

In  saffron  gown,  with  Holofernes'  head 
And  beauty  all  complete  ?  " 

"  She  is  but  sketched 
I  lack  the  proper  model  —  and  the  mood. 
A  great  idea  is  an  eagle's  egg, 
Craves  time  for  hatching  ;  while  the  eagle  sits 
Feed  her." 

' '  If  thou  wilt  call  thy  pictures  eggs 
I  call  the  hatching,  work.     'Tis  God  gives  skill, 
But  not  without  men's  hands  :  He  could  not  make 
Antonio  Stradivari's  violins 
Without  Antonio.     Get  thee  to  thy  easel." 
1873. 


TWO    LOVERS. 


215 


TWO   LOVERS. 


Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring  : 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there, 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 
O  budding  time ! 
O  love's  blest  prime  ! 

Two  wedded  from  the  portal  stept : 
The  bells  made  happ}T  carollings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 
White  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 

O*  pure-eyed  bride ! 
O  tender  pride  ! 

217 


218  TWO   LOVERS. 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent : 

Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked ; 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 
O  solemn  hour ! 
O  hidden  power ! 


Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire  : 
The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

O  patient  life ! 
O  tender  strife ! 


The  two  still  sat  together  there, 
.The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees  ; 
But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 

O  voyage  fast ! 
O  vanished  past ! 


TWO    LOVERS.  219 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 

And  made  the  space  between  them  wide  ; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  "  Once  more  !  " 
O  memories ! 
O  past  that  is  ! 
18G6. 


ARION. 


221 


ABION. 


(HEROD.     I.    24.) 


ARION,  whose  melodic  soul 
Taught  the  dithyramb  to  roll 

Like  forest  fires,  and  sing 

Olympian  suffering, 

Had  carried  his  diviner  lore 
From  Corinth  to  the  sister  shore 

Where  Greece  could  largelier  be, 

Branching  o'er  Italy. 

223 


224  ARION. 

Then  weighted  with  his  glorious  name 
And  bags  of  gold,  aboard  he  came 
'Mid  harsh  seafaring  men 
To  Corinth  bound  again. 


The  sailors  eyed  the  bags,  and  thought 
"  The  gold  is  good,  the  man  is  nought 
And  who  shall  track  the  wave 
That  opens  for  his  grave  ?  " 


With  brawny  arms  and  cruel  e}res 
They  press  around  him  where  he  lies 
In  sleep  beside  his  lyre, 
Hearing  the  Muses  choir. 


He  waked  and  saw  this  wolf-faced  Death 
Breaking  the  dream  that  filled  his  breath 
With  inspiration  strong 
Of  3'et  unchanted  song. 


ARION.  225 

"  Take,  take  my  gold  and  let  me  live  !  " 
He  prayed,  as  kings  do  when  they  give 
Their  all  with  royal  will, 
Holding  born  kingship  still. 


To  rob  the  living  they  refuse, 
One  death  or  other  he  must  choose, 
Either  the  watery  pall 
Or  wounds  and  burial. 


"  My  solemn  robe  then  let  me  don, 
Give  me  high  space  to  stand  upon, 
That  dying  I  may  pour 
A  song  unsung  before." 


It  pleased  them  well  to  grant  this1  prayer, 
To  bear  for  nought  how  it  might  fare 

With  men  who  paid  their  gold 

For  what  a  poet  sold. 


226  AEION. 

In  flowing  stole,  his  eyes  aglow 
With  inward  fire,  he  neared  the  prow 
And  took  his  god-like  stand, 
The  cithara  in  hand. 


The  wolfish  men  all  shrank  aloof, 
And  feared  this  singer  might  be  proof 

Against  their  murderous  power, 

After  his  lyric  hour. 


But  he,  in  liberty  of  song. 
Fearless  of  death  or  other  wrong, 
With  full  spondaic  toll 
Poured  forth  his  mighty  soul : 


Poured  forth  the  strain  his  dream  had  taught, 
A  nome  with  lofty  passion  fraught, 

Such  as  makes  battles  won 

On  fields  of  Marathon. 


AKION.  227 

The  last  long  vowels  trembled  then 
As  awe  within  those  wolfish  men  : 

They  said,  with  mutual  stare, 
Some  god  was  present  there. 


But  lo  !  Arion  leaped  on  high 
Readj',  his  descant  done,  to  die ; 
Not  asking,  "  Is  it  well?  " 
Like  a  pierced  eagle  fell. 
1873. 


O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE." 


229 


"  O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE." 


"  Longum  illud  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  mayis  me  movet,  quam 
hoc  ez^ram."— CICERO,  adAtt.,  xii.  18. 


O  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  :  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosit}', 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undyiiig  music  in  the  world, 


232  "  O  MAY  I  JOIN   THE  CHOIR   INVISIBLE.' 

Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 

With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 

So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 

For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 

With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 

Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 

A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 

Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved ; 

Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 

Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 

And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 

That  sobbed  religiously  in  3rearning  song, 

That  watched  to  ease  the  burthen  of  the  world, 

Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 

And  what  may  yet  be  better  —  saw  within 

A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 

And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 

Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 

To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love  — 

That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 

Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 

Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 

Unread  forever. 


"  O  MAY   I   JOIN  THE   CHOIR  INVISIBLE."  233 

This  is  life  to  come, 

Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty  — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 
1867. 

THE     END. 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JUL 1 

NOV    4196915 


/.UG    2  1970 


J53T7J 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


